Only Hope
by piratepissoff
Summary: During a hunt for a shaman, Sam's soul gets sealed inside of a cursed bottle, leaving his body lifeless and seemingly comatose. After Dean leaves Sam's body at Bobby's house for safekeeping, he is pointed in the direction of the one person who holds the key to freeing his brother's soul: Bela Talbot. Rated M for adult situations. Bela/Dean.
1. Déjà Vu

**Timeline**: set after Bela's first meeting with Sam and Dean. Also, the ghost ship is already taken care of. A little bit of an AU, as I think I'm gonna make Bela's deal pretty non existent, meaning she won't have to steal the colt or try to kill the boys.

* * *

Bela Talbot wasn't particularly fond of surprises, but _he_ never ceased to surprise her. The first time he had surprised her was when he had managed to track her down to her apartment and, not only that, but work his way around her security system. The second time was when he rightfully refused to trust her, proving that he was smarter than he looked. Of course, there were a few more minor surprises in-between and afterward, but none of them compared to the stunt that Dean Winchester was trying to pull now.

He had first called her, the screen of her phone casting a dim illumination over her previously darkened bedroom (it _was_ two-thirty in the morning, she had checked before promptly ignoring the digital DEAN WINCHESTER flashing on her cell's screen), and then, following her lack of an answer, he rang the buzzer to her apartment. Repeatedly. Like about seven times, causing her to roll on to her side and sandwich her head between two pillows to block out the incessant and repetitive _bzzz_.

After he called her phone once again, and she ignored once again, and he returned to the buzzing, she muttered "damn it all to hell" and, in a fit of sleepiness and rage, rolled off of her bed. She angrily yanked her silk black robe off its hangar behind her closet door and hastily wrapped it around her shoulders before stomping all the way from her bedroom to the door of her apartment. She was just about to open it when her fingers twitched above the doorknob and she quickly turned around and opened up the top drawer of a nearby end table, wrapping her hand around the black grip of her Walther PPK and concealing it behind her back. Cocking the hammer back just in case things turned for the worse (which they usually did once her and at least one of the Winchester brothers got involved), she opened the door wide enough to fit her head through and gave Dean her best _this-better-be-bloody-well-good_ glare.

And do you know what he did? He laughed.

He also looked her up and down, or at least what part of her body he could actually see. One side of her robe had slipped between her leg and the door and hung in the empty space between her and Dean, while her nightgown had slightly hitched up as she leaned against the doorframe, revealing a piece of her bare thigh. Realizing this, she quickly straightened her posture, but still glared nonetheless.

"What the _hell_ do you want? Do you know what time it is?" she seethed.

Dean clucked his tongue. "Now, sweetheart, is that any way to treat a guest?"

"Not if the person is uninvited, and very well _unwelcome_," she retorted, putting more of her weight on the door when Dean tried to edge it back with the toe of his boot and allow himself in.

Suddenly, though, his expression became serious. She even noticed a faint stress-caused crease on his forehead, but decided that she was too tired to ask about it. But then she noticed another odd thing—Sam Winchester was nowhere in tow of his older brother.

"I need to talk to you," Dean said, interrupting her thoughts. "It's about a special…_item_…you have in your possession." After Bela gave him a suspicious look, he added, "Please?"

Bela snorted. "'Please' doesn't pay the bills, Dean," she cooed.

He frowned, frustrated. "Can you just let me in?" again, he tacked, "_Please_."

And she noted the edging desperation in his voice. He tried to conceal it, sure; his pride, as well as his hate and distrust for her, was too big for him to let his guard down, but she had seen through his mask. Something serious was going on and, based by Dean's desperation as well as Sam's absence, it had to do with the latter himself.

She stepped aside and opened the door to allow Dean in. He practically stormed inside before realizing that he didn't know where to go and Bela walked past him and led him into the kitchen, but not without concealing her gun in the waistband of her panties first, no matter how clunky and cold and uncomfortable it felt. Once he leaned against the kitchen island and looked around to inspect her flat, she folded her arms over her chest and gave him an expectant look from her spot across from him.

Instead of immediately talking, he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked to be like a small jug…or maybe bottle, of some sort. It was compact, short and wide, looked like it was made out of clay, and was the color of rust. It also had a strange face carved into its surface; the eyes big, the nose short and shaped like a semi-long "U", and the mouth small and turned downwards into a frown. It looked grouchy. To top it all off, it was sealed with a dirty-looking cork, and had a distressed leather string tied on either side of it. All in all it was ugly, and it made Bela mock the face on it.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" she quirked, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow but slightly grimacing nonetheless. She made a move to poke at it but Dean slapped her hand away. She immediately thought he was just joking, or acting distrustful and guarded like he usually did around her, but when she looked up, his face was all seriousness. It quite literally said, "_Don't_."

That sobered her up a little. She immediately straightened her back and cleared her throat, waiting for him to follow up on his death-glare with some words of explanation. Finally, he drew a breath, impatiently rubbed between his eyebrows with the pad of his thumb and said,

"Ever heard of the myth of Morgon-Kara?"

He was joking. _Was_ he joking?

After he didn't crack a _just-teasing-ya_ smile, she frowned. "Can't say I have."

"Siberian mythology. Morgon-Kara was a shaman who could bring the dead back to life. This pissed off the Lord of the Dead all to hell, and he, in turn, complained about it to the high god of heaven." He paused and took a short, yet deep breath. "The high god decided to test the shaman by sealing a single man's soul in a bottle"—Bela, starting to get where this was going, suspiciously glanced down at the bottle in front of her—"and the shaman then rode his magic drum into the spirit universe, found the bottle, and freed him. End of mythology."

"Dean, honestly, I'm touched that you decided to grace me with your presence to share a little show-and-tell with me at three in the morning, I am, but you gave me no notice and I'm afraid I'm empty-handed. We'll have to continue this another time, or, perhaps, never." She glared, irritated and tired and confused. But before she could shove Dean away from her breakfast counter and out of her apartment, he said,

"Sam's trapped inside, Bela."

His voice was quiet and sober. He sounded lost and just as confused as she felt and, against her will, she felt sorry for Dean Winchester. Still, she kept her face void of any emotion except pure incredulousness, and glanced between Dean and the bottle.

"What—? How—?"

"We were hunting down a shaman in Indiana in search of this very bottle when the son-of-a bitch got lucky and hit Sam with a hoodoo soul-trapping spell. Then all of a sudden a murky white smoke is coming out of my brother's eyes and nose and mouth and is floating towards this uglier-than-hell bottle, while his actual body is falling to the floor like dead weight." He paused at the phrasing, briefly uncomfortable with himself, and then went on. "I checked his pulse and everything. It was still there. But _he_ wasn't there. It was like he was in a coma or something."

"Where is his body now? Certainly he's not in the passenger seat of the Impala," she playfully chided, hoping to—at least slightly—relieve the tension in the air.

Ignoring her jab, however, he answered, "I left him at Bobby's. The old man's got an IV and everything a hospital would have that could keep Sammy at least breathing," he said. "That's why I'm here. Bobby told me what I need to free Sam's soul from the bottle."

"I _do_ have a wonderful collection of wine openers," she smiled.

Again, he ignored her. It was odd not exchanging witty banter with him. She didn't like it. It was the only reason why she liked Dean Winchester (and not because he was annoyingly, and if not ruggedly, handsome either).

"It's a rune drum. Siberian, you might have guessed," he said.

She didn't have to think for long about what the man meant. The oval, membrane-encased drum quickly came to her mind, and she smiled almost immediately. It was small, at least no bigger than a normal piece of printer paper, but it was a pretty profitable piece that she had in her possession, and she had yet to line up a buyer for it.

"And this is the key to freeing Sam's soul?" she nodded.

Dean nodded, too.

"Okay, sure, you can have it," she added vaguely, before smiling devilishly and not unlike herself. She noticed that Dean didn't visibly relax after she told him that the drum could be his; the man knew what was coming next. "For two-hundred-fifty."

Dean cracked a hopeful smile, almost pathetically so. "Dollars? I do love myself a bargain," he pulled out his wallet from his jacket pocket and immediately dropped two hundred-dollar bills coupled with a fifty on the counter in front of her.

She scooped it up with ease before extending her free hand out, palm up. "Alright, now where's the other two-hundred, forty-nine thousand, and seven-hundred-fifty dollars?"

Dean groaned and snatched his money back out of her hand. "Okay, look, I don't have that kind of money right now—"

"Goodbye, Dean," Bela sang, cutting him off.

"—but I will find a way to get it to you, I promise,"

"You do realize that a quarter million dollars is _actually_ a bargain, right? There are only seven of these things left in the world, Dean, mine included. Seven total. I could easily sell that for five-hundred thousand, maybe seven-fifty."

Dean practically begged. "Just let me borrow it. I'll bring it back as soon as Sam's free."

"No. Way. In. Hell," she said firmly, harshly enunciating each word. "How do I know that you won't free your brother and then turn around and sell the drum yourself?"

Dean looked past her shoulder and shrugged. "Actually, I wasn't going to do that, but that sounds much smarter than just returning it to you."

Bela frowned. "The only way you'd leave here with that drum is if I go with you," she said. After Dean stared at her with utter confusion sprawled all over his face, she added, "To free Sam. As long as it's in your hands, that drum is to be within my eyesight at all times."

In a swift movement that she didn't exactly see coming, Dean pulled out his pearl-gripped pistol and pointed it at her head. At the same time, she reached under the skirt of her nightgown and drew out her own handgun, aiming right between his pretty green eyes. "Unless I kill you and take it for myself."

She smiled sweetly. "A little bit like déjà vu, isn't it?" her smile faltered and turned to something more sinister, daring. "I'd like to see you try."

Dean quietly grumbled before lowering his gun and concealing it somewhere behind him, presumably tucked between his lower back and the waistband of his jeans. Bela placed hers on the counter, lest he tried that move again.

"I _can_ get you the money, Bela—" he started, but Bela clucked her tongue before he could finish. After this he paused for a moment, his jaw set and his eyes alight with fire, and Bela watched him patiently, if not amusedly. Finally, after what seemed like a good ten minutes, he mumbled, "Fine. You'll come with me, if that's what it'll take to get the drum."

"It's settled," she said. "But I must add that there _will_ be a rental fee, yeah?"

Dean stumbled on his words, vexed and annoyed and unsure of what to bark out first, so instead he said nothing at all and silently fumed as Bela took her gun off of the counter and made her way to her room to fetch her luggage.

From her bedroom, she called, "Do you know how to work this drum, might I ask?"

"Actually, no," he admitted, and Bela could have sworn that she heard the faint sound of Dean rummaging through her fridge. After rolling her eyes, she decided it wasn't worth her time stopping him. "But Bobby pointed me in the direction of the only person in the States that does, unless you want to go to Siberia. But I have to add, I don't do flying, so unless you got a car that drives on water or something…."

"Quite," she snapped back, although she was wearing a smile. After a brief pause, she added, "Who is this person?"

"He's a shaman—not an evil one, though," he said, and in a voice that was much quieter but that Bela could still hear, "Supposedly." He paused, then returned his voice to its normal volume. "Some Siberian guy named…Aliyev. Vadim Aliyev."

"And he knows how to use the drum; to save Sam," she asked, almost suspiciously.

"Supposedly," he repeated. "But it's the only lead I have and I'm willing to follow it. More than willing. Bobby said that in order to save a trapped soul, you have to do a specific beat on the drum. This Aliyev guy knows it—"

"—supposedly," Bela finished with him, nodding even though he could not see her. "And Aliyev...I'm assuming that our dear friend Bobby told you where he's holed up at?"

"North Dakota."

A little over a day's drive from New York to North Dakota, which wasn't all that bad, especially since she knew she wasn't going to be the one driving. As little as she knew Dean, she knew him enough to know that 1) he was not going to sit in any vehicle besides his beloved "beauty", and 2) the only person that he'd ever let drive said car would be Sam, and he was currently—_technically_—already in two places at once.

Bela finished packing her luggage with all of her essentials—toiletries, makeup, hair-straightener and curler, and of course, clothes—before moving into her walk-in closet and ritually finding her safe's keypad along the wall. After punching in her four-digit code, the safe, which was built into the wall, swung open and revealed its contents to her. Of course, this wasn't where she kept all of her stolen valuables (there were multiple other safes like this around her apartment, some bigger, some smaller), but it just happened to be where the drum was located at the moment. It was wrapped in a thick piece of canvas and she pulled it out, making sure to be extra careful, and placed it in a duffel bag that she had snatched from a shelf only moments before. After this, she quickly changed into something more suitable than a robe and nightgown, before grabbing the duffel and luggage and rejoining Dean where she left him.

Or where she thought she left him.


	2. Stupid, Not Stubborn

"Dean?"

Bela paused in her kitchen, placing the duffel and her luggage on top of the counter. She glanced at the refrigerator, rolled her eyes when she saw that the door wasn't all the way closed, and then stopped to listen for any noise that indicated that the elder Winchester brother was still around.

The sound of a low purr drew Bela down the hall and into her study, where she found Dean bent down on both knees, his stomach pressed up against the seat of one of her plush armchairs and his fingers massaging at her cat's neck.

"Honestly," Bela muttered under her breath, shaking her head. "Your brother's soul is trapped inside of a bottle and you have nothing better to do than play with my cat?"

Dean ignored her jab, instead shooting her a weak glare over his shoulder before cocking his head to the side and glancing at her cat's tag dangling from his collar.

"Peruggia," he read, slightly amused. "My guess is _Vincenzo_ Peruggia? The guy that stole the _Mona Lisa_?"

A smirk slowly crossed Bela's face and she shrugged. "I just call him Peru, but essentially, yeah."

Dean gave the lazy Siamese one last scratch before standing up and stretching. Bela rolled her eyes at him but decided that she had better things to do than comment on his pure ridiculousness, such as heading down to the Impala and catching up on a few more hours of rest. The less she had to deal with Dean, the better. Even though her going with him was her idea, she wasn't very fond of it nonetheless. She _was_ fond of the money that came with the drum, however; and she wasn't about to give that away to Dean Winchester for a simple measly, and, frankly, borderline pathetic, "please".

"So, Jane Austen, you ready to hit the road? Or can you not function without your tea and biscuits?" he grinned, taking his car keys out of his pocket and jingling them at his side.

"Funny. You should have your own stand-up routine," she drawled sarcastically, turning around and walking back down the hall.

Dean followed. "It was my second career choice. You know, just in case hunting wasn't really my thing."

"Oh, but stand-up comedy pays better, does it not? Fewer meals out of Midwestern gas stations and more people who appreciate what you do." She paused, put on her best annoy-Dean-Winchester smirk, and turned around to look at him. "But the traveling is all the same, isn't it?"

Dean childishly mocked her, mumbling her words in a goofy voice under his breath.

A few minutes later they were standing in front of the Impala, with Dean carelessly throwing her cream-colored suitcase into the back of the car and (thank god, the man had at least _some_ sense in him) gently placing the duffel bag underneath the passenger's seat.

Once Dean got inside the car and began to put the key in the ignition, he noticed Bela squirming uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. She was trying to fix her skirt around her thighs and the nylons that she was wearing were causing her to slide around on the smooth leather seats of the car. After what seemed like an immense struggle to get comfortable, she finally gave up, draped one of her legs over the other, and let out an annoyed sigh.

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved the key in to the ignition.

"_God_, I'm gonna regret this."

* * *

The Impala was uncomfortable and, for the life of her, she could not see how Sam and Dean Winchester managed to practically live out of the incessant car.

It was stuffy and, what she figured to be out of pure spite, Dean refused to let her roll down her window. To add on to that, the air conditioning was busted and had been since nineteen eighty-nine, and somehow the thought to _fix_ the damn thing never crossed Dean's mind.

Also, there weren't any headrests. If she tried to lean back, her head flopped around and her neck threatened to break with every turn or bump the car took, making sleeping impossible unless she leaned against the car door and pressed the side of her face into the window.

To top it all off, Dean found her discomfort to be funny. At first he was a little annoyed by her, which was only to her satisfaction. She liked annoying him. It was a necessity of their relationship, whatever their relationship was. But once she started to become the source of his humor, her cheeks began to burn and she was no longer basking in the victories of pissing Dean Winchester off. She was just flat out uncomfortable.

After a while, she sat up and sighed frustratingly.

"Not up to your usual standards, sweetheart?" Dean chuckled, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

She smoothed a hand through her hair. "Frankly, I don't think it's up to anyone's standards." She paused. "Except for yours, which are incredibly low, I might add."

"I work with what I have," he smiled.

Bela brought up a finger to massage one of her temples. "I can clearly see that."

They drove in silence for a while. Bela noticed that he had placed Sam's bottle inside of one of the cup holders on the dashboard, the face engraved on it frowning back at her. She wondered if Dean purposely placed the thing turned towards her so that the creepy little face stared at her the entire ride. It certainly didn't seem out of his character.

She soon became very tired of Dean's mullet-music and reached over to turn the dial down. If they had to be in the car together, they may as well talk, even if that meant that most of their conversations would consist of traded insults and bickering like they were a married couple.

Dean glared at her hand as it turned down the volume. "What do you think you're doing? Don't ever touch a man's music, woman."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but ignored him nonetheless. "What did Bobby tell you about Aliyev?"

He shrugged, having recovered from the recent crack in his pride. "He didn't know much. I don't think anyone really does."

"Great," Bela sighed. "So you're pretty much going out on a limb?"

"I've pretty much already made that clear, but yeah," he answered, slightly impatiently. After a brief pause he spoke again, and this time in a voice that was much softer. "It's the only…semi-solid lead that I have on this. The drum seemed legit. The mythology was right. It was too promising to pass up."

_Besides, there was nothing else to pass it up on_, Bela thought to herself, figuring that right then wasn't the time to start bickering again. She wasn't daft. She knew that Dean was really worried about his brother; that he was only keeping up with her squabbling because it kept his mind off of his brother's potentially doomed fate.

Bela didn't say anything further, instead opting to try and make herself comfortable again. She found a semi-decent spot leaning against the door, with her shoulder crooked somewhere between the door and her seat and her head balancing on the door frame. Light was just beginning to form outside, so she guessed that the time was hitting somewhere between five and six o'clock in the morning. Had they been driving for that long already?

Thoughtlessly, her eyes drifted to Dean's side of the car, where she studied his profile. His jaw was set and his thumb kept drumming against the steering wheel, but not out of agitation; out of anxiety. She was good at reading people, and right now "scared" was written all over Dean's face.

She sighed softly, returning her eyes to the window. She felt sorry for him, she really did. Sam was all he had left. She knew what it was like to live life alone, without any friends or lovers, for that matter. Her parents were gone, but she didn't feel sore about that. Not at all. She just regretted that she never bothered to make any friends. The only companion she had was Peru, her cat, whom she loved, yes, but talking to a cat wasn't all that satisfying. Also, a cat didn't really give her any sexual release which, she somewhat hated to admit, a girl needed from time to time.

She looked over at Dean again. Despite the fact that he disliked her, she actually considered him somewhat of a friend. She didn't exactly hate him, or dislike him really; she found him amusing. He was easy to bother yet he also posed to be a challenge to her own witty character. He balanced her out. She liked to think that she balanced him out, too.

In her mind, she shrugged to herself. She and Dean Winchester were more alike than either of them thought, although Bela had a firmer grasp on the concept than her male companion did whatsoever. Or maybe he did realize it but refused to accept it simply out of his distaste for her. It seemed like something he'd do.

After all, he wasn't stupid, just stubborn.


	3. EAT

Bela awoke with a jolt, and with a sharp pain forming in her upper arm. It didn't take her long to realize that Dean had smacked her—_hard_—with the back of his hand in order to wake her up. He surely lacked for subtlety.

She glared at him.

"Wakey-wakey, eggs and bake-y, sunshine!" He said, a rather too loudly. He was doing this on purpose. Her head throbbed.

"Would you _please_ shut up," she groaned, closing her eyes once again when the sunlight threatened to liquefy her eyeballs.

"'Please' doesn't pay the bills, Bela."

Bela clenched her jaw. It was going to take all her strength not to reach around and strangle Dean Winchester all to hell.

After a while, Bela finally spoke, her eyes still closed. "Where are we?"

"At a roadside diner in the middle of nowhere," he answered matter-of-factly.

She almost sighed with relief, despite the fact that she had a pounding headache and her back felt like it was broken in two. Even though the term "roadside diner" didn't exactly seem all that…_clean_, she was relieved to hear that she was finally going to be able to get that coffee that she so desperately needed. And maybe a bowl of fruit, or something that had a less chance of being spoiled when it arrived at their table.

"C'mon, I'm not gonna wait forever," he grumbled, shoving her in the shoulder in the same spot where he had hit her. She winced ever-so-slightly before churning her face into a scowl and carefully climbing out of the car, her back threatening to give out if she moved too fast.

Dean was already waiting for her on her side of the car. He laughed at her position. "You look like a seventy-two year old hag."

"Thanks," Bela sneered. She didn't know if it was just impatience or pity that drove him to assist her, but he let out a short sigh and moved to help her out of the car. He then looked her up and down once she was standing straight up, before scoffing incredulously.

"What?"

"Really?"

"_What_?"

"You look like the secretary of a business CEO. Or maybe the CEO herself, I haven't decided."

Bela rolled her eyes. "And _you_ look like your name is Buck and you drive a car with flames on the sides. Does that make us even?" she snipped, her British accent making her sound extra businesslike, much to her displeasure.

Dean chuckled but didn't deign her with a reply, instead heading to the diner's main entrance. He practically left her in the dust, although this gave her an opportunity to study the roadside diner for herself.

And she immediately frowned.

The building was square, wood-paneled, and painted a booger green color, which was also chipping. The door was rickety, she could tell as Dean struggled to open it, and there were hardly any windows, or at least big ones, for that matter. To top it all of, or to make it worse, rather, there wasn't exactly an official name for the place, just a giant fifties-styled neon sign that protruded out of the ground and read nothing but the word EAT. Maybe the diner's name had been advertised on the sign at some point, but it was long gone by now.

Bela resisted the urge to shudder and quickly followed Dean inside. He was right. She was entirely overdressed for this place.

She found him in a booth at the far end of the restaurant, which (to her surprise) was relatively full of (not to her surprise) greasy-looking truck-drivers with pit-stained tank tops and raggedy jeans. Quite literally, almost every guest in the diner was wearing a dirty tank top and a pair of jeans.

After Bela wearily sat down, Dean grinned widely and clapped his hands together. "I _like_ it!"

Before Bela could answer with a disgusted response, a young woman with short black hair and a relatively pretty face stepped in front of their table. She was wearing a red polo shirt and had a black apron tied securely around her waist. The image almost made Bela sputter with laughter, but she was too worried about what kind of germs lay in her seat to do anything but.

The waitress placed two menus in front of them before smiling broadly at Dean. Bela rolled her eyes.

"Can I get you two anything to drink?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Bela beat him to it. Her voice was quick and sharp.

"Two coffees, thank you."

The waitress pried her eyes off of Dean's face for one second to glare at Bela. She simply smiled sweetly back up at the woman before watching her leave with satisfaction.

She ignored Dean's glare of annoyance (h_a, that's what you get for waking me_, she thought) and instead smiled humorously.

"Funny, isn't it?"

He furrowed his eyebrows. "What?"

"And here I thought you weren't all that daft," she said, rolling her eyes. "The waitress. She looks almost exactly how I did when we first met."

"Oh, and you tried to feel up my brother. I remember that," he nodded.

"I wouldn't exactly call it that. I just needed to get that rabbit's foot off of him. Which, I might add, wasn't very hard."

"Yeah, well, he had a right to be at least a little distracted," Dean said before immediately realizing what he had just implied, his neck turning a deep pink. Bela also instantly blushed, although she attempted to hide it by suddenly becoming increasingly interested on an invisible piece of lint on her sleeve.

After a good, five minute-long awkward silence, the waitress soon came back with their coffee, completely ignoring Bela and practically melting Dean with an (almost) pearly-white smile. He smiled back, of course, all-charm that he was, before unashamedly watching her behind as she left.

Bela kicked him under the table, causing him to sit up alarmingly.

"What?"

"Honestly, you are something else, Dean Winchester," she sighed, holding her cup up to her mouth.

"Takes one to know one, right?" he smirked.

And just like that, they were back to their usual conversation.

A half-hour later they were both hovering over their plates, although Bela was watching Dean shovel his food into his mouth with a look of half disbelief, half disdain scrawled all over her face. He had ordered a whole side of hash browns, a plate of bacon, a meat-lover's omelet, and a stack of toast. He was also halfway through his food already, despite having received it only less than ten minutes before. Bela had, in fact, ordered a bowl of fruit, although she also opted for an English muffin and a side of jam, and was now struggling to eat with the sounds that were coming from Dean's side of the table.

He also talked with his mouth full.

"So, a non-stop drive from New York to North Dakota is about twenty-six hours. However, sleeping in the Impala is out of the question. No matter how much I love her, sleeping in that car is a bitch." At this, he snickered at Bela, who rolled her eyes. Her back was _still_ aching. "Anyway, sometime or another we're gonna have to stop and rest. We'll start looking for motels at around six p.m."

"Wait. It was barely sunrise, last time I remember. What time is it now?"

He checked his watch. "It's almost noon. So about six more hours to drive,"

Bela swallowed a piece of cantaloupe and sighed. "You know, if we'd only caught a plane, we could have been in North Dakota already."

"No."

"Why, afraid of airplanes, Dean?"

"No, _distrustful_ of airplanes, _Bela_." He said her name harshly, almost like it hurt his lips to form the word. His struggle brought a smile to her face.

"Ah, yes," she said. "You. Always so distrustful of everything."

Dean shrugged. "Don't take it personal, sweetheart."

They soon finished their food and Dean called for the check. When the stiff—and oddly covered with old stains—piece of paper arrived at their table, Bela and Dean immediately went to grab for their wallets before leveling one another with a glare.

"Pardon me, I just figured that a diner like this was above your price range," she said, lifting a shoulder in a shrug.

Dean ignored her and slid out a blue credit card, reading the name engraved on the plastic. "It's not out of Theobald Sweeney's price range, I can assure you that." A smirk spread across his face as he pressed the card to the table and slid it towards the check. With a charming smile and a wave of a hand, the waitress was back at an instant.

She immediately picked up the card and read the name. "Theobald Sweeney. That's such an original name," she cooed, one of her eyes fluttering in what Bela presumed to be a wink before leaving with the card.

Bela rolled her eyes. "Theobald Sweeney," she muttered under her breath, staring out the window. "You couldn't have come up with something more realistic-sounding?"

Dean shrugged. "Sammy is _Reginald_ Sweeney. We're the Sweeney brothers."

At the mention of Sam his smile faltered, but he quickly gathered himself together in time to return the waitress' broad beam. Bela watched him the entire time. Usually, when it came to other stuff that Dean was struggling with, and if Bela happened to be around him during those times, Dean was fairly good at keeping his usual façade intact. But she was soon beginning to realize that when it came to Sam or family in particular, things were drastically different.

She wished she could relate.

"Hey," Dean snapped his fingers in front of Bela's face, causing her to blink her thoughts away. "Mary Poppins. You ready to hit the road?"

Bela glared at his name-calling but slid out of the booth and got up nonetheless. Dean took this as her response and got up as well, downing the last of his coffee and checking his pockets to make sure that everything was where it was supposed to be—Sam's bottle included, Bela guessed.

She was just about to turn around and walk out the door when a slim man sitting at the breakfast counter caught her eye. He quickly glanced away from her, rapidly shifting his attention to an approaching waitress. Bela frowned, looking the man up and down. He certainly wasn't a truck driver, not in the kind of clothes that he was wearing—business suit, and a tailored business suit, at that—but before Bela could say or do anything in related to this out-of-place man, Dean stepped into her vision, looking in the same direction that she was.

"Hey, look. It's your business partner." He grinned.

Bela rolled her eyes. "Let's just go, yeah?"

Dean shrugged and walked past her. As she left, she couldn't help but think that the man in the suit watched her all the way until she and Dean got into the Impala and disappeared down the road.


	4. Dreams & Nightmares

Hours later and they were driving somewhere along the New York-Pennsylvania border, Dean's music loudly blaring from the stereo (he had grumbled and turned the dial significantly higher when she told him that no, just because she was English did not mean she listened to Led Zeppelin), and the two of them sitting comfortably cloaked in silence. Dean had also finally permitted her to roll down her window because although he was most definitely childish, it was hot inside the Impala and Bela figured that he was not willing to sit in a puddle of his own seat just for his satisfaction of watching her squirm uncomfortably.

The wind sent her golden brown locks flying behind her, tickling her face and neck and getting spun around the diamond studs that were perched in either of her ears. Meanwhile, she hopelessly tried to ignore the fact that Dean was hopelessly trying to stop observing her, his lips twitching out of half irritation, half attraction. It brought an amused smile to her lips but, in order to avoid turning the comfortable silence into an awkward one, she didn't call him out on it. She was enjoying the warm breeze, the silence; and she was starting to think that maybe she liked just sitting with Dean in quiet contempt more than she liked pushing his buttons.

But then she liked it too much, got _too_ comfortable, and that scared her. She wasn't used to this. She wasn't used to getting along—with anyone, for that matter. It all felt so natural with him that it also felt odd and that confused her, so she turned down the music and ignored Dean's glare and pretended that she was exasperated and sighed.

Thank god they'd been driving for a near six hours since they left the diner.

"I hope you realize that I am not laying my head anywhere that even _looks_ like it matches your standards," she said and slightly hated herself for it. She just had to get back to their usual bickering fast, lest her head exploded. Damn subtlety all to hell. Dean surely didn't care for it.

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, I'm acutely aware that I'm traveling with the Queen of England, thanks," he snapped back.

There. That was better.

And then it was silent again. And it was awkward.

They passed many motels, each of them which Bela frowned at. They all seemed to make the EAT diner seem like a place out of the Hamptons, and Dean growled and grumbled and drove past, whispering things under his breath such as "high maintenance" and "bitch" and, her personal favorite, "the germs in those motel rooms are nothing compared to the gun I'm gonna pull on you in a second".

Finally, when the sun was completely gone from the sky but darkness had yet to dawn on them Dean pulled the Impala into a parking spot on the outskirts of a large dirt circle, at the center of which stood a polished wooden sign with the words MCKENZIE'S CABINS intricately carved on it.

"You better like it, cause I swear I'm not driving another mile till morning," he said firmly before getting out of the car to retrieve their suitcases from the back. Bela rolled her eyes at him and studied the area. She supposed it wasn't all that bad; the dirt circle was surrounded by a number of cabins, all of them the size of a small house save for one, which was two-stories and also which, Bela guessed, probably housed the lobby and dining hall. Not only that, but the exteriors of the cabins looked to be all clean and polished, surrounded by healthy-looking grass and pretty flowers.

She smirked. Dean had picked well. The man never ceased to surprise her.

She followed him towards the large cabin, having made sure to insist on carrying the duffel in herself while he towed their normal bags ahead of her. When they stepped inside they were greeted with the smell of firewood and rosewater. It was all very homey, especially with the plush (and _clean_, Bela thanked god) forest-green carpet and oak log walls.

Dean, having sensed Bela's approval, wiggled his eyebrows at her over his shoulder. She smiled and rolled her eyes in return.

A plump old woman with rosy cheeks and sleek silver hair greeted them, beaming up at them (she was a woman who was as wide as she was tall) through her purple-framed glasses. Bela noticed that, unlike the waitress at the diner, the old woman smiled pleasantly at the _both_ of them, and not just at Dean.

"Hello. How may I help you?" she asked.

"Room for two, please," Dean said, pulling out his credit card and handing it over to the lady. Bela peered at her nametag. No first name, just Mrs. McKenzie.

"One bed, I presume?" she asked, looking between Dean and Bela, both of whom were unsure of what to say. Surely it'd look slightly odd if they booked a cabin with two rooms, and not only that, but it'd probably be more expensive, too. And someday or another Theobald Sweeney was bound to run out of money.

"One bed," Bela confirmed, sending a silencing glance in Dean's direction. Mrs. McKenzie smiled sweetly and swiped Dean's card before handing each of them a bronze-colored key.

"You're gonna be in cabin seven, the last one on your left when you step outside," she told them with a nod.

"Thanks, ma'am," Dean smiled, swooping down to pick up their bags. As they turned and walked out the front door Mrs. McKenzie called, "Thanks for staying, Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney!"

"Dreadful name," Bela sighed as they headed towards their cabin, which was conveniently one that the Impala hadn't parked too far away from.

"Better than Alex," he replied. "You don't look like an Alex."

"Hm," she hummed as they climbed the two steps up to the cabin's porch. "What do I look like?"

He glanced over his shoulder as he fumbled with the key. "Other than a thieving bitch?" This earned him a glare. "Kidding. I don't know. You look like a Bela."

Ironic, since Bela was not her real name.

She didn't answer and instead followed him inside once he turned the key and pushed the door open. It had the same log walls and green carpet as the main cabin, although it was more furnished to look like a small home. Based on what Bela could see, she guessed that the place was cut up into four parts: a small living area, a kitchen, a bathroom, and the main bedroom, the last of which she immediately made a beeline for, snatching her suitcase up along the way.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dean called after her, slightly agitated.

"I'm getting settled in _my_ bed," she replied, putting emphasis on the "my".

Dean appeared at the bedroom door and shook his head. "Oh, no, no, no. I paid for this cabin, which I assume wasn't very cheap, by the way."

Bela rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. That isn't actually _your_ money, anyway, and besides, you can always apply for another credit card later using a different ridiculous name, am I right?"

She knew she was, but Dean protested. "You're not sleeping in the bed!"

But she wasn't giving up without a fight—or giving up at all, rather. "The couch looked fairly comfy."

For a few minutes Dean just stared at her, brows drawn together in a frown and jaw set in agitation before grumbling under his breath and retreating back into the main area. From the room she could hear him mumbling to himself, saying similar things to the ones he had said when they were looking for a place to lodge, and it was all Bela could do not to laugh.

After getting settled, which included unpacking her toiletries and such as well as making sure Dean hadn't switched out the drum for a replica or something utterly ridiculous but equally as deceptive, Bela went back out into the living area and found Dean sprawled out on the couch, his arm draped over the back of the sofa and his leg dangling over the sofa's arm. She had to admit that he looked entirely too big for the two-cushioned loveseat, but it made her chuckle nonetheless.

She also noticed that he had showered. The room smelt vaguely of male body wash and his hair was still damp and sticking up in all directions, and instead of his leather jacket and mud-stained jeans he was wearing a grey T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans that, from where Bela could see, had a hole the size of a marble near the cuff.

Bela came up behind Dean as he flipped through channels on the TV. For a while he settled on a cartoon, causing Bela to smirk to herself as she walked around the couch and surprised him. Dean immediately switched to a sports channel and pretended like he wasn't just watching a re-run of _Johnny Bravo_.

"He kind of reminds me of you," Bela said, in regards to the show's titular character.

Dean grumbled. "I don't know what you're talking about." She smirked and sat down on the arm of the chair that wasn't being suffocated by the crook of Dean's heavy-looking leg. Before she could tease him further, he said, "I took the liberty of ordering us some room service while you were making yourself at home."

Bela raised an eyebrow. "This place provides room service?"

"Yeah. Some scrawny kid with a goofy haircut and a shirt that had the very first button fastened delivered it," he dramatically shivered. "Very Norman Bates-ish."

"You're joking."

"I kid you not, Bela Talbot," he said, never taking his eyes off of the television screen. He thumbed over his shoulder. "It's all over there. You might wanna microwave it."

She crossed over to the kitchenette and stared at the food that had been haphazardly tossed on to the counter. Among the heaping mass (which included a half-eaten hamburger and a devoured baked potato) Bela spotted a half of a turkey sandwich and plucked it from the pile. She carefully unwrapped the plastic and took one bite, savoring the flavor of unprocessed turkey and fresh condiments. Before she realized it she was down to the last bite and sucking the tips of her fingers to rid them of any stray bread crumbs and mayonnaise.

And then she noticed that Dean had left his spot on the couch and was now standing across from her, an amused expression on his face.

Bela swallowed. "What?"

He shrugged. "So very un-lady-like."

She sneered at him. "Yeah, coming from the man who probably christened the term 'Sloppy Joe', that's nice."

Dean snickered. "Anyway, I'm gonna hit the sack. Literally," he frowned at the couch before turning his eyes back on her. "Try not to make too much noise over here, okay?"

Bela had half a mind to throw a handful of food at him to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off of his face but thought better and instead nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. "I guess I will too, then. I'd say goodnight, but I'm not all that sure you're going to have one."

The last thing she heard before closing the bedroom door was Dean grousing in a low voice, "Bitch."

* * *

Bela was dreaming. She was at her apartment and Peru was somewhere about and she was sitting in her living room enjoying a glass of expensive wine. Dean was there, too, kneeling before her and hands kneading her foot. She wiggled her toes in his grip and said something about the tuxedo that he was wearing and how it suited him nicely. He told her that he liked how her slinky necklace made her neck look lean and delicious, and then he was slowly sliding up her body, head cocked to the side and eyes focused on the patch of skin above her jugular. And just when he was about to brush his lips against that spot that now achingly burned under his scrutiny, the dream turned into a nightmare.

A bony, ice-cold hand enclosed over her mouth. It was suddenly dark and she was no longer sure whether she was in her apartment or not but the moon shining in from a nearby window cast a shadow over her attacker's face and prevented her from seeing them.

He smelt sterile. Like a hospital. She was sure that she wasn't having a nightmare about Dean; no, this was someone else entirely. But who?

And then her attacker shifted above her and the moon illuminated half of his face and Bela was now sure that this wasn't a dream or a nightmare. This was reality, and the man in the suit from the diner was very much real, and very much ready to harm her.

"Hello, Ms. Talbot. I've been following you."


	5. Blood

His voice was accented, like hers. It was also eerie, especially since he spoke in a whisper, and even in the relative darkness of the room, Bela could see his eyes.

They were black, _actually_ black, and the one on the side of his face that she couldn't see back at the diner had a thin scar running directly through it at a slight angle.

He was still wearing the same suit that he had on earlier, meaning that he must have been following them ever since they had left the diner. How come Dean didn't notice that they had a tail? How come _she_ didn't notice that they had a tail?

"Who—are—you?" she managed to strangle out between his long, pale fingers.

"The employee of a client that you failed to please," he whispered back, thin white lips brushing dangerously close to the tip of her nose.

She stared into his eyes. There was only one person that would be able to hire a man like this—a _professional_ like this. She never thought that he'd have the stones to send an actual hit man after her, though. She always fingered him to be a man that hid behind his words and money. He never scared her, not like this man that he had sent after her.

"Luke Howell," she growled out.

"Yes, and you left him out a very rare item," he growled back.

Bela furrowed her eyebrows together in determination. "What's he paying you? I'll double it."

"I'm afraid I'm too loyal for that, Ms. Talbot."

Bela scanned her brain for any back-up plans before darting her eyes to the door. This maneuver didn't go by her attacker unnoticed because his hand tightened around her mouth and he waved a finger in front of her eyes.

"Ms. Talbot, don't even think about screaming, because then I'll be forced to kill _him_, too." His voice crept out between his lips and crawled into her ears and it was all she could do not to shiver.

And then one thing occurred to her: he may have been a professional, but he was also surprisingly light. It was probably one of the reasons why she didn't hear him sneak in and why Dean hadn't stopped him, but that also meant that it gave Bela the chance to shove him off of her.

And _run._

In a flash, Bela tumbled out of the bedroom and into the living area, the slim man calmly and closely pursuing her. She prayed that Dean had stolen the drum and made off like a bandit, because part of her—no, _all_ of her—did not want him to die. Despite that it was he and Sam who foiled her plans of selling Luke the rabbit's foot in the first place, she did not want Dean getting caught up in this mess.

She burst through the cabin's front door and made a break for the nearby woods. As she ran, a sharp pinch on the sole of her left foot suddenly became slick with something wet and what she presumed to be her blood, but she did not stop. She did not stop when the leg of her silk trousers caught on a tree branch and tore cleanly down the hem. She did not stop when she heard something hiss and run in the opposite direction. She did not stop when she tripped over a rock embedded in the ground and tumbled over; no, she got up and kept running.

She did stop, however, when she failed to hear the sounds of someone following her.

And it was the single most foolish thing that Bela Talbot had ever done in her lifetime.

As fast as light, the slim man came up on her side and used his body to pin her to a nearby tree. The bark carved into the parts of her back that her tank top did not cover, but she didn't make a move to try and get comfortable because there was no point. This was it. She knew that now. She was going to die.

"Don't struggle, Ms. Talbot, and this will go by at least slightly better. I'll even promise not to kill your friend." A sinister smile crossed his face and he wrapped both of his freezing hands around Bela's neck, pinning her to the tree while also pushing his hands down at an angle into her neck.

Stars clouded her vision and then it started to grow increasingly dark. The moonlight, no matter how bright it was, was no help. Anything and everything was almost entirely black, and she figured that there really was no point in struggling. She was going to give up.

_Goodbye, Dean. Save Sam, would you?_

And then, out of nowhere:

_Bang._

A burst of rain came down on her. No, not rain—blood.

The _hit man's_ blood.

Bela blinked twice. She held a hand to her cheek and when she pulled it back, her fingers were tipped with crimson. She could still feel his hands around her neck and now—all this _blood_. She felt light-headed, but at least her vision was slowly coming back.

And then it occurred to her that she was shivering. _Trembling_. It also occurred to her that she had slid down the trunk of the tree and was now more or less sitting on her bottom, her legs bent to the side. She brought her arms up to her eyes. They were covered in red. No, they weren't, were they?

Was she just imagining it?

She didn't know. She frantically tried to get the blood off of her. She swiped her palms across her forearms and smeared the blood off of her cheeks and away from her eyes and mouth and nose. All she could smell was blood. All she could _see_ was blood.

No, she could see something else. Some_one_ else.

She couldn't hear what he said, but she saw his mouth form into something harsh, like a yell. Perhaps he was saying her name. She didn't know.

Dean ran up to her and braced his hands on either side of her head and used his thumbs to wipe some more blood away. She could tell he was repeating her name, even though she couldn't hear him. He asked a question, something she couldn't quite read, and instead stared blankly at his lips. They moved and moved and moved and she could not comprehend what he was saying for the life of her.

All she could think about was the blood.

And the man's hands around her neck.

And the _blood_.

Dean looked back at the hit man's body, said something that was probably a curse, and then turned his eyes back on to Bela. He leaned forward and then suddenly she was being lifted, her face pressed into Dean's neck and his hand curved around her hips, holding her close to his body. He was walking fast but not running. No, he couldn't bring any attention to himself.

_Blood_.

Being a thief didn't require much killing. She never had to see much blood. Never did she have to be covered in another man's blood, either.

Dean kept to the shadows and crept inside their cabin. The warmth engulfed her but she never stopped trembling, not even when Dean shut the door with his foot and carried her to the bathroom. Not even when he turned the shower on hot. Not even when he stripped her down to her bra and underwear, the pads of his intensely warm fingers gently pressing into the skin on her arms and stomach and hips.

He carried her into the shower. She couldn't move; didn't even try to move. She just stared blankly at her toes, watching the scarlet water disappear down the drain. She let him rinse her down, making sure to be gentle and not act too forcefully. He smoothed a hand down her hair, rubbed circles on her arms and calves, gently spun her around and cleansed her backside.

She had stopped trembling, much to his relief, but now she wouldn't stop looking at the water. He imagined that all she could see was the blood swishing down the drain, staining her skin.

He finished washing her and fetched a towel, wrapping it around her shoulders and helping her out of the bathroom. He walked her into the living area and sat her down on the couch before lifting up her left leg and placing it on the coffee table so that he could clean and wrap up her foot.

She didn't even flinch as he dabbed it with rubbing alcohol and wrapped it up in gauze. She didn't say a word when he briefly left, disappearing somewhere behind her before coming back with a thick white robe that he secured around her frame shortly after. She didn't protest when he sat down next to her and laid her on her side, resting her head against his thigh and smoothing a hand down the length of her arm, stopping to cup her elbow.

She did, however, murmur a quiet "thank you", right before she fell asleep.


	6. Mr & Mrs Sweeney

Bela woke the next morning cold, clammy and gasping, her fingers darting up at her throat in a vain attempt to try and pull an invisible pair of hands away from her neck. Then, suddenly, a pair of arms snaked around her biceps, their hands clasping below her bosom, and she was about to struggle when she realized, abruptly, that these hands weren't going to hurt her.

These hands belonged to Dean.

He rocked her into him, pressed the flat of her back into his chest and brushed his lips against the curve of her ear. "It's alright, Bela," he was saying to her, "You're safe. I'm right here."

She brought a pair of shaky hands to her face and when she pulled them back, there was no red. No blood. She looked down at her arms and stomach and legs. She was covered in a soft white robe, not the tank top and pajama pants that she remembered being in last. She had ripped her trousers, right? That's why—

And then she remembered Dean hovering over her in the woods, the moon illuminating the deeply concerned expression etched on to his face. Remembered him tentatively peeling off her clothes, his fingertips brushing against her bare skin every now and then and contrasting heavily with the iciness she felt coursing through her body. Remembered him bathing her, calloused hands scraping the blood away—the hit man's blood, not hers, she shakily recalled. Remembered him smoothing a thumb along her ankle as he used his other hand to clean and wrap her foot up; remembered him gently coercing her to lie down, propping her head against the thigh of his jeans as he cupped her elbow and stroked her hair until she fell asleep.

She stared blankly out the window. The woods. The slim man. Did Dean just leave him there? She couldn't remember. Then she realized that she was actually voicing her thoughts out loud, and that Dean was answering them.

"He's taken care of, don't worry," he told her, rubbing a circle on the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. His hands were incredibly warm, not clammy or sweaty or hot, just warm. She could feel his heat spreading through her body, fighting off the icy invisible hands at her neck, melting them away. "He's gone, never coming back."

"Never coming back," she echoed. "Gone."

"That's right," Dean said, "Now go back to sleep. We have some time before we should leave."

But instead, Bela sat up and turned to gaze at his face. He had dark smudges under his eyes, which were also bloodshot, and deep creases along his forehead, which probably came from a lack of sleep and too much stress. She absently brought up a finger and traced the lines before drawing an invisible one between his eyebrows and down to the tip of his nose.

"When's the last time you slept?" she asked him, frowning.

He didn't answer her for a long time. "A couple of days, I don't know. It's you I'm worried about, though, Bela. You didn't sleep well last night."

"And _you_ didn't sleep at all," she countered.

He let out a frustrated sigh before softening his expression. "Fine. How about we both sleep, deal?"

"Deal," she answered, returning to her original position curled up against his chest.

Bela went right back to sleep. Dean, however, didn't at all.

* * *

A few hours later and Bela was standing in front of the shower in her bra and underwear, staring blankly at the drain.

From the couch, Dean frowned. She'd been in there for fifteen minutes already.

He rose up on stiff legs and walked over to the bathroom door, where he knocked once. Despite it being barely a tap, Bela jumped.

"Hey. You okay?" She didn't answer. He waited. "Bela?"

When she didn't answer again, he edged the door open. The seat was down on the toilet and she was sitting on it, her eyes fixed on the floor of the shower. When she noticed his presence she turned her head and looked up at him, her eyes swimming in terror.

"It's not there anymore, is it?"

He knelt down beside her. "What's not there anymore?"

"The blood."

He watched her grim expression before covering her hand with his own on her knee. "No, it's not. You'll never see it again, okay?"

"Okay."

"Do you need help?" she shook her head. "Okay. Take your time, alright? I'll clean and pack everything up while you shower."

He did just that. He started to clean up the kitchenette before going into the bedroom and putting all of her stuff back in her suitcase and thoughtlessly eyeing the duffel holding the drum. When he came back into the living room ten minutes later, he found Bela sitting on the couch with nothing but a towel wrapped around her, her wet hair dripping on to the back of the chair and rolling on to the carpet.

He bent down and cracked her suitcase open. He shuffled past anything that even remotely resembled a skirt before finding a single pair of designer-looking jeans and a cashmere V-neck sweater the color of wine near the bottom, pulling those two out before deciding that she'd probably need a new bra and pair of panties as well. After fishing those out with a slight blush in his cheeks, he walked over to Bela and gently placed them in her arms, telling her that he'd go back and finish cleaning the kitchen to give her some privacy and time to change.

He wasn't checking her out. At least, not in the vulgar, unashamed way he usually checked out women. He tried his best to focus on clearing the kitchen counter of all the food they didn't eat, but he kept getting distracted every time she caught the corner of his eye, absently tugging on her jeans before clasping the fresh bra behind her nude back. He swallowed and pried his eyes away, brows creased in determination.

"Are you okay?" Bela asked him, almost starting to sound like her normal sassy self. Still, her face showed genuine concern for him.

"What?"

"You seem mad," she observed, gesturing at his strained expression. _If only she knew_, he thought. When he looked at her again, she was just covering the last of her bare stomach with the sweater, and his breath hitched as he caught glimpse of her navel.

"I…no, I'm fine," he replied, clearing his throat. "Are _you_ okay?"

She let out a deep breath and wiped her palms on the thighs of her jeans. "I'm…better," she smiled weakly. "Thanks."

Dean smiled back, then stepped aside and gestured for her to walk first out the door. They checked out of their cabin and returned their keys and again, as they walked out, Mrs. McKenzie called, "And thanks for staying with us, Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney!" but this time Bela didn't comment on the name, didn't comment on anything.

She simply smiled to herself and wondered what it'd be like to _actually_ be something similar to a Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney with Dean Winchester, and couldn't help but think that it didn't seem like it'd be such a bad life.


	7. You Twit

**Author's Note: **In response to user **BlueEyedSalvatore**'s review: for the most part, yeah, Bela's past will be the same in regards to her father sexually abusing her and her mother doing nothing to stop it. They also died the same way and the same time that they did in the series, although I'm drifting a little way from canon by making Bela's deal non-existent. So, basically, we can pretty much sum up her parent's death as bad karma in this fic. And, as always, thanks for reading!

* * *

It had been hours since they left McKenzie's Cabins and Bela was slowly returning to normal. Every now and then Dean would glance at her out of the corner of his eye just to see her blankly gazing over her arms and hands; that same vacant, yet terrified expression she had on her face when he found her sitting on the toilet and staring at the shower. He'd be worried, of course; gnaw on his upper lip and heavily debate whether or not he should say anything of comfort to her but then she'd beat him to it and give him some sassy one-liner about him not being able to keep his eyes off of her, and then he'd glare and turn his eyes back on the road.

Truth was, though, that Bela was watching him every now and then, too, and in fact had been on and off ever since they got back into the Impala. She did occasionally lapse into a vacant state where she would imagine the slim man's hand lowering over her mouth, and she'd almost screamed a few times before she realized she was safe now. He was never coming back; he was gone. The lapses, however, were becoming less and less frequent the more she watched Dean's profile, and solely because her mind was becoming less preoccupied with her own near-death experience and more with genuine concern for her traveling companion.

The smudges under Dean's eyes had turned an even deeper shade of purple and he was currently viewing the world through eyes that were half-lidded and bloodshot. He had let his stubble grow out longer than it usually was, making him seem almost scruffy, and she would have blamed that on the previous night's events if she hadn't noticed that he almost looked this bad when he first showed up at her apartment a couple of nights ago. She remembered asking him the last time he slept and remembered him telling her that he couldn't remember, then guessed to be about a couple of days. Then she tried to recall if he had been asleep on the couch when she—_wince_—burst out of the cabin's bedroom and ran out the front door, loud and frantic and fast. She couldn't.

"Can I ask you something?"

The question caught Dean so off guard that he was almost weary to answer, afraid that if he responded then she'd only give him some bitchy answer that would piss him off, which would have probably been her aim in the first place. Even so, and against his better judgment, he hummed in a positive response.

"When I ran out into the woods…when, you know, _he_ was chasing me, where were you?" After she said this she quickly realized how selfish her phrasing sounded and hastily added, "I mean, before you came and saved me. Before you killed him. You weren't in the cabin, _were_ you?"

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his short hair. He shrugged. "I was in here."

"In the car?" He shrugged again. "Why?"

"I don't know. I was listening to music," he replied. Shortly after, he added, "Ever since Sammy's been gone I haven't really been able to sleep."

Bela frowned. "Dean…."

He cut her off. "Just drop it, alright? I'm fine."

"It's not really you I'm worried about. I just don't want you falling asleep on the road and end up killing us both, is all," she quipped, although she failed to completely hide the concern in her voice.

"Yeah, well, I won't," he snapped, his knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. Bela glared for a second before reminding herself that he had more than one reason to be irritable, so she instead sunk back into her seat and continued to observe him in silence.

It wasn't until they were driving somewhere along the northern border of Ohio, the clock on the dashboard reading four p.m. and the bags beneath Dean's eyes now practically the color of soot, when Bela abruptly sat up and ordered Dean to pull over.

"What?" he replied, an irritated expression almost beating out the reigning exhausted one on his face. "Do you gotta pee or something? 'Cause I hate to break it to you, but you're either gonna have to shake whatever you got down there or wipe with an old map."

"Pull the car over," she repeated, ignoring his disgusting previous comment. When he rolled his eyes at her, she turned in her seat so that the entire front of her body was facing him and, with narrowed eyes, added, "_Now._"

He had to admit, it kind of scared him. But—and this is what he told himself, although deep down he knew it wasn't true—this wasn't the reason why he complied.

When he pulled the Impala off of the highway and on to a patch of mostly dead grass and sand, Bela pushed herself out of the car and walked around to the driver's side. She peered at him through the open window.

"Scoot over," she commanded.

"What? No," he stubbornly protested. "Don't be ridiculous. Just get back in." After she didn't budge, he rolled his eyes. "You're being childish."

"No, _you're_ the one who is being childish, what with this weird relationship with an inanimate object and all." She knew just what to say, what words would provoke him, and Dean grumbled something that sounded similar to "that's it, bitch" before opening the door and making a move to step out and confront her.

However, as soon as he as much as put one foot on the ground and began to stand up, Bela placed her hand on his shoulder and pushed him down hard, and all in a swift, smooth movement. He landed back in his seat with a thump and a creak—the force caused the car to bounce up and down for a few brief seconds, squeaking in protest—before a fed-up expression completely dominated his face and he tried to get up again, this time with more force. Again, Bela pushed him down but didn't give him a chance to get back up a third time as she pushed her way inside with him. At first he wouldn't move and her bottom would have come into full contact with his lap but he realized what an awkward position this would have put them both in and scooted over to the passenger's side at the last second, although not without muttering in protest under his breath.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? You're _not_ driving my car!" He looked both alarmed and furious at once, and she had to admit that he kind of looked cute, if not ridiculous. Just like she had sat not too long before, his whole front was facing her but he looked awkward and had to hunch over to keep from bumping his head on the roof of the car, whereas Bela could have sat with a straightened back and her legs folded Indian-style if she wanted to, even with the wheel in front of her. Nonetheless, she swiftly reached over and swiped the keys from his hand, which she figured he had snatched out of the ignition before moving over, and started the car back up again.

Dean had stopped trying to fight back and instead folded his arms over his chest and pouted like a little child, frowning at the road ahead of them as Bela merged back on to the empty highway.

She looked over and saw his expression before rolling her eyes at him. "You are such a child."

"You are such a child_,_" he mocked in a high-pitched, poor imitation of her accent. Then, in his normal voice, he added, "I swear to god, I _will_ kill you if you hurt her."

"Please relax, would you, Dean?" she said impatiently. "There's no need to be so drastic."

"Oh, yeah? Bela Talbot is driving my car. There is every need in the entire freakin' _world_ to be drastic!" he replied, waving his hands in the air.

"Do calm down, before you give yourself an ulcer," she said coolly. "But seriously, I'm not going to let you back behind the wheel of this car unless you get some sleep. Or you could just close your eyes—or, at least, _pretend_ you're sleeping. Please, just humor me, because you look like death." _And you have me worried, you twit,_ she mentally added.

Dean glanced at himself in the side view mirror and dragged a hand down his face before bringing it back up and pushing it through his hair. He let out a deep breath before irritably glancing at Bela out of the corner of his eye.

"Fine," he finally said, "Only because you said please."

Slowly, Dean sunk back into the corner between the seat and the door, his arms still folded over his chest and his face still set in a scowl. Trading glances between him and the road, Bela watched as his expression slowly relaxed and his bottom lip puffed out in an almost innocent way.

Soon enough he was snoring lightly, the tip of his nose twitching ever so slightly as he dreamed. Bela glanced at the radio and briefly thought about changing the station to something more of her taste, but quickly thought otherwise once she figured that Dean probably had some sixth sense when it came to music and would have immediately woken up if her fingers so much as brushed the dial. Instead, she willed herself to listen to his music, and soon she was quietly singing along to Fleetwood Mac.

"_Thunder only happens when it's rainin', players only love you when they're playin',_" She sang, lightly tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. "_Say, women, they will come and they will go…._"

Her eyes drifted downwards to the space between her and Dean and found it occupied by one of his rough-skinned hands. Tentatively, and almost absently, she edged her own hand down next to his and slowly entwined their fingers, careful not to wake him up.

If she had been looking, she would have seen the soft smile form on Dean's lips.

"_When the rain washes you clean…you'll know…._"

* * *

**A/N: **Oh, and in case anyone's wondering, the song that Bela's singing to is Dreams by Fleetwood Mac.

**_Reviews_**, anyone? (:


	8. Leather & Black Coffee

It was nightfall when Dean's eyes snapped open and, based on the clock on the dashboard, he had slept well over five hours. As he looked around he realized that Bela had stopped to get dinner, as the Impala was stalled in front of a drive-thru window and she was shamelessly flirting (to try and cure her boredom, probably) with a pimply and scrawny kid who couldn't have been older than seventeen. Bela said something that Dean didn't bother to try and make out and the kid blushed and laughed, his glasses tipping to one side ever so slightly as his nose twitched.

Bela and the kid traded off a greasy bag and a crisp bill and soon she was sliding out of the drive-thru, completely oblivious to Dean's eyes blinking at her in the dark.

"I was starting to get the impression that you were allergic to carbs."

Bela would've jumped in surprise if the sound of Dean's groggy voice didn't send an arousing shiver down her spine, and she had to actually clear her throat to recover herself. Dean, thankfully, didn't notice, and instead reached down to unravel the paper bag of food, pulling out a cheeseburger and an onion ring, shoving the latter in his mouth whole.

"I was hungry, and it was either the burger joint or The Road Kill Grill. I went with the obvious choice," she didn't have to see him to know that Dean had the same repulsed expression on his face that she had when she passed the restaurant a mile and a half back. "Even so, I _do_ happen to appreciate a good hamburger."

Dean stared back at her in disbelief and stopped half-chew to reply. "Oh, really?" He asked flatly.

"_Yes_, really," she replied, her British accent piquing on the first word as she breathed a laugh. Dean sucked in a low breath against his will, he couldn't help but think how cute she had sounded at that moment. "There was this place down the road from my primary school that my nanny would take me to every Wednesday after she picked me up. I loved it; they had the best burgers and fries. I eventually stopped going, though."

Dean frowned. "If you loved it so much, then why'd you stop going?"

"Because my father found out about our little Wednesday afternoon indulgences and fired my nanny on the spot," she replied, and he couldn't help but detect a hint of sorrow—or was it disgust?—in her voice, no matter how straightforward she had tried to sound.

For a brief moment neither of them talked, but then Dean swallowed down a chunk of cheeseburger and eyed Bela's profile, or what he could see of it in the darkness of the car.

"Who is your dad, anyway?"

Bela didn't answer him right away. She just kept driving down a long road, her breathing quiet but going at an otherwise steady rhythm, and for a second Dean thought she hadn't heard him, even though there was no chance in hell that she hadn't. He was about to open his mouth and change the topic when suddenly, in a quiet, child-like voice that didn't lack for pure disgust and simultaneous terror in any way, Bela said,

"A monster."

And at that moment, Dean understood. Or, rather, he understood as much as someone who hadn't ever been in her kind of position could. He felt sympathy, yes, and a whole lot of anger, for sure, and he had a full mind to demand that she tell him where her son of a bitch father was so that he could track him down and kill him himself, but then Bela spoke out in that small, scared voice again, tearing Dean out of his thoughts.

"Was. He _was_ a monster."

"So he's dead?"

"If I'm lucky, he's more than that, and he's currently rotting in hell."

He fought off the urge to brush away the tear that he could see sliding down her face, as it shimmered in the moonlight, and instead said, "For what it's worth, if I could go downstairs and kill him again, I would."

She let out a sad chuckle. "I know."

Dean thought better than to ask about her mom, sensing that Bela didn't have that much of a positive relationship with her, either, and instead finished off his hamburger in silence.

He watched as she tried to subtly polish her tears away, and by instinct, an instinct that he quietly cursed himself for, he stopped her hand before it reached her face and he slid his fingers between hers, soaking up her smeared tears on the back of her hand with his thumb. She looked at him, weary, and he smiled, hoping that she could make it out in the dark.

She did, and she smiled back.

He thought back to when Bela paid him and Sam for saving her life from the ghost ship, and how he called her damaged. He regretted those words, because if he'd only known what he knew now, the reason why she was so..._Bela_, then maybe their relationship would have progressed at a much faster pace than it had.

He had to admit, though, that they had come pretty far from staring at each other down the barrel of their guns. Now they were holding hands and brushing away tears and sharing deep, dark secrets and, he had to admit, he liked it. It made him feel normal, like he wasn't a supernatural-killing machine with deep familial problems and a tendency to cut off any and all romantic relationships that required anything more from him than just sex.

It didn't help that with Bela everything felt natural, too. Like how it was instinct to reach out and take her hand in his, how it was instinct to brush her tears away and damn them all to hell; how it was instinct to tear her father apart limb by limb, although he was pretty sure that he, and any other person with a heart, would have done that for any woman who's father could do something so monstrous, so scarring.

"What are you thinking about?" Bela asked him, her voice sounding more normal than earlier.

He blinked and smiled as she gently turned his hand on its back and lazily traced a never-ending circle around his palm with her index finger. His hand was growing clammy from the contact, but they both ignored it.

"That waitress back at the diner," he joked, letting out a low whistle. "The rack on that one, I'll tell ya."

Bela shoved him lightly in the shoulder before resting her hand back in his. "You're a pig," she said, although her tone was affectionate. "You give _Johnny Bravo_ a run for his money."

Dean slid his eyes in the opposite direction. "Why, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Ms. Talbot."

"Yeah, sure you don't," she giggled, and it was the sweetest thing that Dean had ever heard.

* * *

They drove for another forty minutes or so, looking for any open motels and subsequently failing, until they came up on an RV park that was, according to the man working the toll booth, exclusive to RVs only. This was where Bela came in again—much to Dean's slight concealed jealousy—not-so-subtly brushing her fingers against the toll booth worker's arm and batting her long brown lashes, making sure that the moonlight caught her eyes so that her story of her and her "brother"—_yes_, brother, much to Dean's embarrassment and Bela's amusement at said embarrassment—needing a safe place to sleep for the night would have a higher chance of being believed. Five minutes and a lot of unnecessary skin-to-skin contact later and the worker was directing them to park between two RVs at the far end of the lot, beaming at Bela's exaggerated thanks.

"You better watch out. That kind of behavior can drive a man to obsession." Dean joked once they had both gotten settled in their makeshift beds: Dean sprawled out uncomfortably across the front seat and Bela curled up underneath Dean's favorite jacket in the back, respectively.

"I'm not worried. If he tries anything I have you to protect me, and if that doesn't work out, which I wouldn't doubt, I stashed a gun underneath the passenger seat in case of emergency." She quipped lightly, smiling as she envisioned Dean's eye roll and smirk despite himself.

"I like a woman that comes prepared."

"Is that supposed to be a sexual joke?"

"I—uh, that's not—"

Bela laughed. "I'm only toying with you," she said, smiling up at the roof of the car. "Now, go to sleep."

"I just got done sleeping for seven hours straight. My sleeping schedule's kind of screwed up right now."

"It was screwed up before then, too," she rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself, then. _I'm_ going to sleep."

"Sweet dreams, sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite and all that jazz, princess," Dean said in a sigh as he tried to settle in his seat, his hands folded behind his head in an improvised pillow.

Bela was too tired to give him a wordy reply, so all he got in response was a breathy hum as she pulled his jacket tighter around her body, her head nuzzled against the inside of the collar, which smelled unmistakably like _Dean_; like leather and black coffee and, vaguely, like Irish Spring body soap. It was an odd combination and probably would have smelt weird on anyone else but it just _suited_ him, and it cloaked an overwhelming sense of comfort around Bela's lithe body as she dozed off to sleep, simply smiling and smelling like Dean bloody Winchester.


	9. Touch

**Author's Note: **Just a heads up, but this chapter is the reason why this fic is rated M. Enjoy!

* * *

They left the RV park at six sharp the next morning, with Dean making sure that he was the first to wake up so that Bela wouldn't beat him behind the wheel. When she finally came to and sat up in the back, her hair standing up on one side and the jacket still draped over her shoulders, Dean was smirking back at her, trying his best not to laugh.

"Jesus, you look like hell."

Bela narrowed her eyes at him. "You really are quite the charmer."

Dean shrugged. "It comes naturally, you know?"

She ignored him as she opened the door with her bare foot and slipped out, walking around and sliding into the passenger's side as Dean made a point to impatiently check his watch and roll her eyes at her slow, still sleep-heavy movement. When she sat down, Dean had already started to pull out of their parking space, and she flipped her mirror down and inspected her reflection.

"Wow. You weren't kidding," Bela said as she swiped the sides of her fingers under her eyelids to clear them of smudged, day-old eyeliner. Her lip gloss was completely gone and she knew that it was probably smudged somewhere in Dean's jacket, and she smiled to herself as she envisioned his reaction when one day, while wearing the old leather coat, he sniffed at the collar and got a whiff of strawberry lip gloss.

"Charming _and_ honest," he smirked. "I really am a keeper."

Bela rolled her eyes at him, making him grin even wider. As they drove, Dean told her how he had planned to get to North Dakota by nightfall and find a motel to stay at before going to the shaman's house the next morning to take care of Sam and the bottle. She frowned when he said this, a thought suddenly occurring to her.

"And how are we supposed to get your brother's soul to his body if he's all the way at Bobby's?"

"Bobby's supposed to meet us at Aliyev's house. Sammy's riding up with him," he answered.

Next, she asked the obvious, albeit tentatively. "And what if Aliyev refuses to help us?"

Dean clenched his jaw and his fingers twitched around the steering wheel. She knew that he probably didn't want to think about that, but it was a question that needed to be asked. Vadim Aliyev was essentially their only hope, and if he refused to help them, then they were completely out of luck.

He didn't answer her and she took this as a sign that he wanted to drop the subject, so she didn't inquire any further.

They drove the entire day, stopping at a McDonald's at around ten in the morning to pick up some breakfast and much needed coffee. They also drove in relative silence, although it wasn't comfortable as much as it was tense, because Bela noticed that the closer and closer they got to North Dakota, the more and more apprehensive Dean got. She also noticed that he barely picked at any of his meals, only eating the hash brown from their breakfast and taking a few bites out of the sandwiches they had bought for lunch before soon discarding it without so much as a second thought.

They didn't trade playful jabs, didn't even bicker. They just drove, and soon enough they were pulling into a Holiday Inn Express parking lot in Linton, North Dakota. They lugged their bags out of the car, checked in under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Theobald Sweeney, and retreated to their room without uttering a single word to another.

As soon as they got inside Bela said something about needing to take a shower and retreated into the bathroom to do just that. Around twenty minutes later she came out of the washroom in a robe, her chocolate hair stringy and wet, to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands forming a steeple around his nose and mouth and his eyes fixed on the ugly bottle that he had placed on the nightstand before him. She wasn't sure if he just didn't bother to look or if he actually didn't notice her return into the main room, but he didn't even so much as budge when she walked around the bed to check if he was alright.

One look, though, and she immediately knew that he wasn't.

"Dean?"

When he answered, his voice sounded strangled and, she couldn't help but notice, slightly scared.

"I don't know," he nearly whispered, never taking his eyes off of the bottle.

Bela's eyebrows slightly drew together. "What?"

"I _don't _know what I'm gonna do if he refuses to help us. Or, worse, if he's a god damned fake," he clarified, in regards to the question she had asked him in the car earlier that day. He still wasn't looking at her.

Bela let out a small breath she didn't realize she was holding and sat down on the bed next to Dean, instinctively bringing a small hand up to rest on his back between his shoulder blades. He tensed at first, almost like he didn't realize that she had moved to sit beside him, but he soon relaxed under her touch.

"Don't say that. But even if it doesn't work out, I'm sure you'll find something," she said softly, rubbing a small circle on his back. "Dean Winchester _always_ finds a way. You wouldn't be who you are—_where_ you are—if you didn't." She offered him a delicate smile.

Dean turned his head to look at her and the tips of their noses brushed against one another, but neither of them pulled back. Dean's eyes fell to her lips and her cheeks burned as she suddenly realized that two of his insanely warm—and _large_—fingers had come to rest on her bare knee.

Without much thought, she brought up her hand to cup the side of his face and brushed her thumb against the stubble on his cheek as he let out a deep breath through his nose, tickling her mouth. It was almost like everywhere that she touched him the tension cleared away from that part of his body, because as she stopped rubbing his back and moved to smooth a hand over his thigh, his muscles there noticeably relaxed, turning limp under her fingertips.

Neither of them knew who made the next move first, although it could have been both of them at the same time, but now they were kissing, and one of Dean's hands was cupping the back of her head while the other was curled around her shoulder, and she was still holding his face while also gently pushing all five of her fingertips into his chest. It was soft and intimate, while also incredibly sultry and intense, and soon enough Bela was halfway in Dean's lap, her hair falling around both of their faces as their lips waltzed together in a never-ending dance.

Once they broke the kiss to suck in some much needed air through pink, puffy lips, Dean moved his head down to start kissing along Bela's collarbone, nibbling gently at the pit of her neck and making her tremble in his arms. She let out a small gasp as he kissed along the underside of her jaw and tenderly rolled her earlobe between his teeth, and he felt her nails press into his scalp in response. The action made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

At some point Bela's robe came loose, exposing the mismatching bra and underwear that Dean had picked out for her the day before, and they both smiled as they kissed one another, exploring each other's bodies with their hands. Bela relished the feel of Dean's calloused hands trailing their way down her stomach, stopping at her navel to run a finger along the side of her bellybutton, before continuing down and brushing away at the hem of her panties. She let out a moan of protest but Dean just smiled against her mouth, completely forgetting the bottle and Sam and Aliyev and all of his worries for the time being.

Neither of them had realized how long they had been waiting for this moment, but it was evident that it had been a hell of a long time by the way Dean trailed kisses along the topside of her breasts and the way Bela gently dragged her nails along his spine. They were slowly melding together; their hands practically melting into one another's skin as he expertly unclasped her bra behind her back and as she pushed his shirt up his body, her hands traveling over the rough terrain of his abdomen.

Bela flipped them over so that she was straddling his waist and bent her head down to kiss along his scars; making him suck in his breath as her lips brushed against his skin, especially when she had dragged them across a diagonal scar in the dip of his hip, trailing dangerously close to his budding erection. She smirked at his reaction but before she could do anything else, Dean was pulling her up his body and rolling them over once again, pecking her once on the lips before lowering his head down, and down, and _down._

She shivered as his fingers curled around the hem of her panties and he slowly, almost achingly so, dragged them down her legs and threw them to the side. He kissed up her inner thigh before he got all the way up and pointedly avoided her most sensitive and slick area, instead moving his head to nibble along the soft bump of her hipbone. The action made her let out a gasp, but her face still burned in a mixture of agitation and yearning at Dean's teasing. Soon she was pressing the palm of her hand against the top of his head, trying to force him down and finally get to the point.

He did, and not long after that she felt his hot tongue dipping between her thighs. Even though she had been expecting it, the maneuver had still somehow managed to catch her off-guard, and she pressed the heels of her palms into the mattress and shakily sucked in a breath of air. She felt Dean smirk against her and she would have smacked him on the side of the head if he hadn't swiftly flicked his tongue up against her clit, making her hips buck up against him and her nails almost tear holes into the sheets.

He placed a hand on her stomach to brace her and she shuddered as she lowered her lower half back down on the bed. Dean's smile had faded away and he was now working his mouth skillfully against her, nipping at her clit every once and a while before trailing his tongue up and down her slit to keep her barely hanging on the edge. He kept this up for a while before she finally had enough of his teasing and pressed his head into her, a fire starting to rise in her cheeks as he got the hint and paid extra attention to her delicate spot.

Soon enough she was gasping his name and clawing at the back of his neck as she arched her back over the bed, her thighs holding his head firmly against her as she lost herself in the waves of her orgasm. Dean had to forcibly pry her thighs off of him so that he could breathe, and they were both panting by the time Bela had begun to regain control of herself.

Bela brought his face up to hers so that she could kiss him, and she could taste herself on his lips and tongue and she immediately became aroused once again. Her hands shot down to the button of his jeans and she hastily pushed both his trousers and boxer briefs off of his body, clawing at his bottom as she did so. Dean bit down on her lip as her nails sunk into his cheeks and she smirked as he ground himself against her, his erection—_god, _he was large— pressing into the lower portion of her belly.

Before his jeans fell to the carpet Dean caught them and fished his wallet out of the front pocket, finding a condom inside before dropping his denims on the floor. He tore open the packet with his teeth but before he could do anything else Bela had swiped the condom from his hand and, in a swift, yet torturous motion that made Dean buck his throbbing manhood against the palm of her hand, rolled the rubber down his shaft.

Bela let out a shaky breath as Dean slowly pushed into her, his thumbs pressing down hard in the dip of her hips as the friction between their private parts nearly drove him mad with desire. He surely did not lack for size, Bela realized, as she struggled to adjust herself around him, and it certainly did not help that he was distracting himself during the wait by rolling each of her aching nipples between his teeth. Before long he was rocking against her in a smooth rhythm, his face buried in her neck and his teeth sunk into her collar bone like he was a vampire and she was a nice, tasty little human—which she _was,_ but in a totally different way that made Dean dizzy with lust and want.

After a while she locked her legs around his waist and flipped them over, the swift motion causing both of them to gasp and growl respectively, and Bela rolled her hips against Dean's and tipped her head back as she grew closer and closer to her second orgasm of the night.

They lost themselves at the same time; Bela's arms shaking as she braced her hands on Dean's chest and let out a final cry of pleasure. Dean had his hands firmly clasped around her waist and he ground himself into her as he, too, teetered over the edge and a loud groan escaped from his throat and the deep depths of his belly. As she came down, Bela's arms gave out from under her weight and she fell against Dean's chest, her head landing right next to his. He soon calmed down himself and lazily rubbed a hand along her spine as she turned her head to the side and softly breathed into his neck.

They lay like that for a short while before Bela pressed her lips tenderly against his neck and rolled off of him, nestling into the side of his body. For a while it was silent, and Dean had started to think that maybe she had fallen asleep when, suddenly, with her eyes closed and in a heavily drowsy voice, she said,

"We're so bloody damaged."

He almost laughed, but caught himself, and instead whispered back, "Yeah, but at least we're damaged together."

And that night, Bela Talbot fell asleep smiling.

* * *

**A/N: **Alright! Tell me what you think, because I had a hell of a hard time trying to finish this chapter and almost punched a hole in my computer because of it.


	10. Deal or No Deal?

When Bela woke the next morning, Dean was not beside her.

No, he was sitting in a rickety old chair, his eyes fixed on the bottle. He had shaved, showered and dressed, the bags under his eyes were almost completely gone, and his body seemed totally relaxed. Instead of looking apprehensive or scared, he appeared rather confident and somewhat optimistic, especially as he had an actual—_yes_, actual—conversation with Sam's bottle.

"Boy, you'd never guess what just happened, Sammy," Dean was saying in a light whisper, trying to hold back an ironic chuckle. Based on the way he was speaking, Bela guessed that he wasn't aware that she was awake. "Let's just say that there is currently a beautiful woman lying in my bed—well, _sort_ of my bed—and her name also happens to be Bela Talbot." He nodded and scoffed to himself, like Sam had said something in response, and then added, "Yeah, I know, right?"

Bela smirked to herself. Dean Winchester was definitely something else.

"Anyways, that's not what's important right now, sadly," he was saying now, his voice suddenly more sober. "I don't really know how, but today's the day that I'm going to get you out of there, you hear? No more Christina Aguilera, genie-in-the-bottle thing for you. It doesn't really suit you, man," through a space in the covers, Bela could just barely make out a sad smile on Dean's face. "I'm gonna find a way to free you, because someone very smart just recently told me that I always do, and I trust her word."

Bela's cheeks suddenly became very warm as she realized that Dean was again talking about her, and she couldn't resist poking her head up from under the blankets to send a sleepy smirk his way. He did a double-take in her direction, his face immediately turning pink with embarrassment, and she smiled wider.

"Do you have a fetish for inanimate objects or something, Dean?" she joked, her smile droopy as she was still trying to completely wake up. If he hadn't thought of how damn beautiful she looked then, he would have thought of some quick one-liner to shoot back at her.

"Oh, shut up," he said instead, smiling as he got out of the chair to sit on the bed beside her horizontal form. He poked her gently in the stomach as he added, "At least I don't talk in my sleep, unlike you."

Bela playfully swatted his hand away and frowned. "I do not."

He raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and nodded. "Yeah, you do, sweetheart."

"What did I say?"

He pretended to think for a second. "Well, you said something about me being the best guy you've _ever_ had in bed…." Bela made a move to smack him on the arm but he chuckled and ducked out of the way at the last minute before clasping his hands lightly around her wrists to keep her from trying to hit him again.

"You _do_ talk in your sleep, though," he said to her afterwards, playing with her fingers. "Just a few words here and there, bits and pieces, you know. You talked about your cat—oh, and something about some guy named Luke." He frowned, pretending to be jealous. "Should I be worried?"

Bela smiled. "No, he's no one special," she said, entwining her fingers with his. "Just a former client."

Dean noticed how her smile faltered after a while, and realization hit him. He drew his eyebrows together. "You mean the guy who you were supposed to sell the rabbit's foot to?"

"Yes, but"—she quickly smoothed her fingers along the side of his jaw as he _actually_ became worried—"I'll be fine. You have enough to worry about as is."

"Just…be careful," he said quietly, resting his hand on the arm that was outstretched towards his face. He brushed his thumb over the bone in her wrist as he turned his head to the side and kissed her palm. "I don't want to get Sam back just to lose _you_ after."

It was probably the sweetest thing that he had ever said to her and she smiled as she saw how genuinely concerned he was for her. She blinked once and sat up, pressing her lips to his and not caring one bit whether she had morning breath or not. Dean's mouth, on the other hand, still tasted like the spearmint of his toothpaste, and she relished the flavor on her own tongue as they kissed.

"Don't worry about me, Dean Winchester, because _I_ always find a way, too."

He smirked as they pressed their foreheads together. "I know."

"Good," she said, pulling back to look at him. "So, did Bobby call you yet? What time is it, anyway?" she looked around the room in search of a clock, but couldn't find one.

After checking his watch, he answered, "It's eleven o'clock and, yeah, Bobby called," he said. "He's supposed to meet us at Aliyev's in an hour. In the meantime, you should eat breakfast. There's coffee and a bagel and cream cheese over there." He thumbed over his shoulder at a small, round table that was pushed against the window.

Bela edged out of the bed, finding the robe that had been thrown aside last night and tying it around her waist once again. She walked over to the table and began putting her bagel together, completely aware that Dean's eyes watched her the entire time. She glanced over her shoulder at him as she stirred her coffee.

"What?"

"Nothing," he shrugged, lying down and kicking his feet up, his hands folded behind his head. He was smiling, almost to himself. "I just really, really like you."

And she knew that in the vocabulary of Dean Winchester, those words meant a hell of a lot.

* * *

An hour later, Bela had since polished off her breakfast and dressed and showered, her hair blow-dried and her makeup done. Dean watched her get ready in silence, smiling the whole time as he watched her steadily apply her eyeliner and cover her lips in strawberry gloss, and every now and then she would glimpse at him in the mirror and he'd make a face at her, and she'd roll her eyes, but smile nonetheless.

It seemed like it was a normal routine for them, despite the fact that it was the longest time that either of them had spent with a lover after a night of sex. Normally, Dean tip-toed out in the morning before his partner could wake up, while Bela would usually kick hers out of her apartment before they could even so much as say "good morning". Despite all this they were enjoying each other, and both secretly wished that they could go on like this forever.

Sadly, however, they both realized as they checked out of the motel and climbed back into the Impala, that sooner or later their little fling was going to have to come to an end. The both of them separately decided to shelve this thought until it was absolutely necessary to think about, and instead focused on the present, where they were content as is.

As they settled in the car, Dean pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and stared at some words that he had scribbled there, which Bela presumed to be Aliyev's address. Around half an hour later they were pulling up in front of an average-looking one-story house, painted a beige color with a half-broken picket fence and fronted by a square of dead grass. Across the street sat Bobby's empty car and Bela gave Dean an encouraging smile, squeezing his hand once before they fetched the duffel and the bottle and climbed out the car, walking up to the front door.

Vadim Aliyev was a small, old man, definitely older than Bobby, with short, snow white hair that was thicker on the sides than it was on the top, which only consisted of about seven or eight strands. He had a sleek pair of rectangle glasses perched on his nose, the lenses dark, and he was outfitted in a knit cardigan and yellow polo shirt, coupled with a pair of slacks and casual shoes. He stood with a significant hunch and leaned on a cane, while he slowly brought his other hand to press against Dean's face.

Bela thought he was cute, while she could tell that Dean was barely managing to hold on to his patience as the old shaman gently poked and prodded his face.

"Hello," Bela said, looking past Aliyev and into his house. "Is Bobby Singer here?"

Aliyev dropped his hand from Dean's face but didn't look at Bela as he spoke. "He's here. We've been expecting you." He turned around and started walking back inside, swinging the cane from side to side in front of him. "Please, come in and follow me."

Dean and Bela exchanged a look as they stepped inside. He was _blind?_

"Your friend has filled me in on your predicament," Aliyev said as they walked down a narrow hallway and into a makeshift living area in the back of the home, where Bobby was currently waiting for them, standing next to a sleeping form on the couch beside him.

Sam Winchester looked peaceful, kind of like how dead people look when you view them in their caskets, although he didn't look gray and he didn't smell like those god-awful flowers that just _reminded_ you of death every time you got a whiff of them. No, he looked relaxed and well, if not lying in a slightly awkward position as his incredibly long legs hung over the edge of the couch, and Bela couldn't help but notice how Dean visibly brightened when he saw how healthy his brother's body looked.

"Hey, kid," Bobby said, bringing Dean into a one-armed hug and clapping him gently on the back. He then stepped aside and nodded in her direction. "Bela."

"Hello, Bobby. Always a pleasure," She replied, and Bobby gave Dean a quizzical look when he noticed that her words lacked any trace of sarcasm.

"Take a seat," Aliyev instructed after they were done exchanging greetings, waving a hand over the numerous empty seats before them. Dean and Bela sat down next to one another on the small loveseat across from Sam. "I assume you have the drum with you?"

It was an obvious question but they both avoided giving him some sarcastic remark in return, with Dean instead answering in the positive and subsequently taking the sleek drum out of the duffel and handing it over to the shaman.

"Very well. Now, if you'd just place the bottle in your brother's hands, we can proceed."

Dean got up and slipped the bottle out of his pocket, placing it in the center of Sam's torso and gently covering it with his hands. He smiled softly down at his brother, winking for good measure, and then took his place at Bela's side again, clasping her hand in his.

What they saw next was hard to describe. Aliyev had sat down in a chair between the two parallel couches; the drum balanced upright on his knee and his hand reaching behind his back and pulling out some sort of hammer-looking object, which Bela presumed to be the drumstick. The old man hummed something to himself, and none of the others knew whether it was part of the ceremony or not, but he was soon beating on the drum with the face of the hammer, some sort of odd beat that didn't sound like it had any rhythm to it whatsoever ringing in each of their ears. His wrist flicked back and forth at a rapid speed, the beat getting faster and faster and more and more intense as it progressed, and he was still humming a simple tune to himself, like how normal people did when they washed dishes or dusted furniture.

Dean's eyes were fixed on the bottle the entire time, and he began to grow a little nervous as he saw Sam's hands gradually tighten around the old clay flask, the veins on the backs of his hands beginning to pop out and the tips of his fingers turning white with the pressure. It seemed like the quicker the beat got, the tighter Sam's grip on the bottle became, and soon he was squeezing it so hard that his arms and hands were shaking, and Dean realized that he was sort of shaking, too.

And then, suddenly, the ugly bottle shattered in Sam's hands, the shards falling on his stomach and the white smoke—_Sam's soul,_ Bela realized—extending over his body like an opaque fog, slowly settling lower and lower until it was completely gone.

For a while it was quiet, and Dean was clenching his jaw so hard that Bela thought he might crack a tooth, but then Sam's eyes popped open and he immediately sat up straight, panting.

"Sammy!" Dean made a move to get up, but Bobby stood at the same time and placed a hand on his shoulder to still him as Aliyev said, "Give your brother some time to readjust. He will be alright, I can assure you."

Sam looked around the room, his eyes skimming over everyone before landing on his brother. "Dean?"

Dean shrugged Bobby's hand off of his shoulder and walked over to his brother, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. Sam looked at the other people in the room with them, his eyes scanning over Bobby and the old man in the stereotypical old man clothing before settling on the pretty girl with the cat-like, sea green eyes and brown hair.

It was Bela. He was looking at Bela. "What the hell is going on?"

Dean held his brother at arm's length, smiling broadly. "It's good to have you back, Sammy."

"It's _Sam,_" he frowned, forcing his eyes away from Bela—sometimes the scar in his shoulder _still_ hurt—and bringing the heel of his hand up and pressing it against his forehead. "God, what is going _on?_ And why the hell does my head feel like it's being drilled into by a jackhammer?"

"That'll be the side effects of being soulless," Aliyev stated matter-of-factly. "It'll go away in a couple of hours."

Sam gaped at the old guy with the faint—was it Russian?—accent. "_Soulless?_"

Dean frowned. "You mean you really don't remember?"

"No, I don't, and the confusion isn't making my head feel any better," Sam grumbled.

Dean sat back beside Bela and Sam couldn't help but notice how close their knees were to touching. Nevertheless, he didn't comment on this as his brother began to explain to him everything that had happened to him in Indiana, and he suddenly realized that there were multiple shards of the bottle still hanging about in his lap. He picked them out, listened to how Dean and Bela embarked on a road trip from New York to North Dakota to save his "sorry ass", as Dean put it, and soon, they were leaving Aliyev's house and promising him that they wouldn't get their souls trapped any time soon.

Not long after that, Dean, Bela, and Sam were saying their goodbyes to Bobby, who pointed them in the direction of an empty house that he had squatted in overnight, telling them that Sam should get some rest—with Dean arguing that he had had _plenty_ of rest—before they got back on the road. Nevertheless, they obeyed the man's wishes, and soon found themselves sitting around a table in the otherwise vacant house's living room, drinking beers.

"Wouldn't have pegged you as a beer-drinker, Bela," Sam said, rolling a bottle cap beneath his fingers.

Bela shrugged as she tipped her bottle to her lips. "I'm full of surprises."

Dean smirked and said under his breath, "Don't I know it."

Sam looked between the both of them, then decided that there wouldn't have been a better time to ask than then. "Alright, what the hell is going on here?"

"Dude, we already told you. Soul-trapping? Ugly bottle? Did you even _listen_ to anything we told you back at the shaman's house?" Dean frowned, reaching over to lightly knock on the side of his brother's skull.

Sam pushed his hand away. "No, man, I'm talking about _here;_ between you two."

Bela and Dean exchanged glances, with the former's cheeks slightly turning pink. Dean playfully nudged her in the arm. "To be honest? I don't really know, but _something_ happened, and it's not that bad."

"She _shot _me!"

Bela rolled her eyes. "This again? Can we not let bygones be bygones?"

Sam glared at her but Dean raised his hands at his sides in peace. "C'mon, if it weren't for Bela you wouldn't be here, man. I understand she shot you, which"—he gave Bela a look—"wasn't very cool, but no one's getting shot now, and no one's getting shot any time soon. _Right?_"

Who knew that Dean Winchester would ever be playing the role of peacemaker? Nevertheless, Bela and Sam complied. "Right," they said in unison.

"Okay, cool, because for the first time in almost a week I am stress-free, and I don't want either of you ruining that for me." He polished off the rest of his beer before stretching, almost every joint in his body cracking with a satisfying _pop_.

After a while, Sam spoke again. "I guess I should thank you two for saving me," he said, smiling ironically at his brother. "After all, it would have kind of been useless for you to make your deal only for me to end up pretty-much dead a few months later, huh?"

He had expected a laugh, but all he got was a deeply tense look from Dean, and a largely confused look from Bela.

"What? What deal?" Her eyebrows drew together and she leaned forward to look at Dean in the eyes. "What's he talking about?"

Dean began to answer, but before he could make up some excuse, Sam said, "You mean you haven't _told_ her?"

"Told me _what_, Dean?"

A thick silence fell over them, with Bela glaring at Dean and Dean staring at the floor and Sam wishing like hell that he hadn't opened his mouth, but also cursing his brother for not telling Bela the whole truth. Of course, he wouldn't have had a reason to tell her about his deal with the crossroads demon had he not became involved with her in the first place, but there was no going back now, especially since Dean didn't want to.

"A few months ago, Sammy died," he began, his voice quiet and his eyes slowly meeting hers. "I was desperate, I was…I was about to lose the only person I had left." As he went on, Bela's eyes slowly clouded with realization and her lips flattened into a thin white line. "So, I did the only thing that I could think of to bring him back. I sold my soul."

By this time, Bela was staring at him with her fists clenched on top of the table, and all she wanted to do was cry and yell at him for being such a bloody _idiot_, for feeling like he was so goddamned obligated to protect his brother, but she did none of that and instead, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, asked,

"How much time do you have left?"

His jaw was set and he couldn't look at her in the eye as he spoke. "Around three months."

Without another word, Bela pushed her chair back and got up from the table, heading straight for the front door.

"Bela," Dean followed her, finally reaching her at the end of the sidewalk, where he managed to curl his fingers around her upper arm. "Bela, wait. I'm sorry—"

She whirled on him, stubbornly refusing to let the tears stinging her eyes finally fall. "_No,_" she said in a trembling voice, shoving a finger in his face. "Don't you _dare_. Don't you dare, because you could have saved us a hell of a lot of confusion by telling me before we slept together—before I began to _fall_ for you, you goddamned arse."

He blinked at her words, his voice quiet. "Bela, I'm _sorry._"

She leaned back, almost like if she stood any closer to him his words would stab a hole through her heart, and shook her head. She turned around without uttering another word and walked away, tears stinging her eyes and her arms wrapped around her body. Dean watched her, but didn't follow.

It wasn't until she was sitting in the driver's seat of some car that she had stolen and hot-wired, speeding down some freeway that would lead her to the nearest airport, that she let out a strangled choke and finally let her tears fall from her eyes. She beat the steering wheel with her fist until it was red and raw and sore; gripped it until the skin over her knuckles threatened to split, and cursed Dean Winchester.

She cursed him all to heaven, because no matter how much she hated him in that moment, she also loved him, and he did not deserve to go to hell.


	11. No Such Luck

**Warning: **This chapter includes implications of child abuse/sexual assault, so if you're uncomfortable with that sort of stuff, then just skip the first part.

* * *

_No, don't come in here._

She was curled up on her bed, leaning into the corner farthest away from her bedroom door. Strands of her hair had stuck to her face, her tears acting as the adhesive, and her palms were starting to throb as she dug her nails into them, hard. She bit down on her bottom lip and tried to steady her breathing; tried to muffle the sounds of her crying as the footsteps from down the hall slowly approached.

_Please, just leave me alone._

The hardwood floors creaked with every step that was taken, but soon—_too_ soon—it all stopped. She sucked in a low, terrified breath as she made out two foot-shaped shadows through the crack under her door and closed her eyes as the sounds of the doorknob turning reverberated in her ears like a loud drum. She watched as it rotated slowly, didn't curse herself for not bothering to lock it because it would have been a futile effort anyway, and willed that maybe, just _maybe_ this would be the night that her mother decided to grow a backbone and put an end to this all.

She didn't, and the door crept open.

He was wearing a small grin, although his forehead was creased in faux concern at her crying. He walked over to her at that painstakingly slow pace that he had traveled down the hallway in, slowly lowering himself in a crouch at her feet as he got to her bed. She attempted to move her foot away as he brought a hand up and tried to brush his fingers against her, but he clamped his hand around her ankle at the last second, nearly cutting off the circulation from her foot. She gasped as the pain coursed up her leg, but he raised and slowly wiggled a finger at her before she could make any louder sounds.

"Now, you know daddy doesn't like when you use outside voices in the house," he said to her in a voice that one would use when speaking to a child, despite the fact that it was a fourteen year old girl—his _daughter_—that he was talking to.

She didn't reply. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to scream as her father slowly released his grip on her ankle and dragged his hand up the length of her leg and under her school skirt, his grin going so wide that he almost looked like a Cheshire cat.

"That's better, Abby. You make daddy proud."

* * *

Bela sat up in bed and emitted a strangled scream from her throat, drenched in sweat and reaching under her pillow to pull out a gun and aim it at a non-existent threat looming over her. But instead of her monstrous father kneeling before her, she found her cat, alarmed at her sudden movement and stirring away from his previous place against her thigh with a hiss. She blinked at the animal, panting, and lowered the gun to her lap.

Then, suddenly, she burst into tears.

She buried her face in her hands and let out a strained cry, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she sobbed. It had been like this on and off ever since she returned home from North Dakota nearly two weeks prior; she'd be sitting on her couch or leaning against the kitchen counter when she'd randomly start crying, a million thoughts running through her head. It didn't help that only recently she had started having nightmares again, ones that she hadn't had since she was fourteen years old. She had become relatively numb to her past, only thinking about it once in a while to curse her long deceased parents, but now the memories were coming back at her like vivid, terrifying blows to the chest, and she knew that it had to be somehow connected to her recently discovered knowledge of Dean and his impending fate.

They hadn't spoken since she left him back at the abandoned house, although she'd be lying if she said that he hadn't tried to contact her. He called her, left her messages, emailed her, and at one point she thought she might have seen the damned Impala driving slowly by her apartment, but she ignored it—she ignored _all_ of it. If she was to have any hope of getting over Dean Winchester, she _had _to disregard all of it, no matter how hard it hurt her to do so.

Nevertheless, Dean was all she ever thought about. She wanted to hate him, wanted a reason to get over the fact that she had fallen in love with a man bound to hell, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She would instead find herself crying again, pounding her fists bloody into the wall and screaming her anger out at the top of her lungs. By the end of her first week back, her knuckles were badly bruised and she had hung up many new pictures all over her apartment to cover the holes that she had made underneath. She was a tangled mess of anger, sorrow, and fear, and all she wanted to do was sleep, but she couldn't even do that lest she wanted to go through the nightmares. There was no bloody escape from the constant hell that she had been thrown in.

Bela had since stopped shaking and now the tears were just silently falling down her face. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes in an attempt to cut off the flow of tears, pressing hard until a dull ache began to form in her head and she pulled her hands away, blinking away the stars from her vision. Peru rubbed against her leg and meowed, nudging one of her hands with his nose, and she smiled weakly down at him in return. She knew that even though he was just a cat, he was still trying to make her feel better.

Sniffing, she turned her head and read the clock on her nightstand. It was only seven in the morning, but she figured that she was definitely not going to be getting anymore sleep, so she eased out of bed and groggily walked into her kitchen. Peru followed, probably expecting to get something to eat out of the venture, and hopped on the counter next to her as she prepared herself a cup of tea.

She waited patiently, forcing herself to think about anything but the elder Winchester brother, and would have been completely and utterly lost in her distracting thoughts were it not for her cat snapping its head in the direction of the front door, hissing and jumping off of the counter before disappearing around the wall separating the kitchen and the living room from one another. Completely disregarding her tea, she frowned and followed after the alarmed Siamese.

If she wasn't in such a foggy state, she would have been on a higher alert. Instead, she was tired and sad and annoyed, and the last thing from her mind—despite having pulling one out only minutes before as she woke up—was finding a weapon. Besides, even if she had thought of it, she wouldn't have had any time to, because as she turned the same corner and brought her eyes upwards, she found herself staring into the barrel of a gun.

The man holding the pistol lifted his other hand in silence. "Don't make a sound, bitch."

She complied, and instead focused her eyes on the man behind the weapon. She saw a chubby face, pitch black, grease-slicked hair and a matching goatee, and the unmistakable scent of expensive, yet terrible-smelling cologne filled her nostrils and burned her eyeballs. Nonetheless, she narrowed her bloodshot eyes into disgust-filled slits and curled her fists at her sides.

"Now, baby, don't do anything drastic," he said, flicking his gun towards the kitchen and stepping forward, indicating her to move with him. She gritted her teeth as he called her baby, but moved backwards into the kitchen without saying a word, never taking her eyes off his. He was smiling at her, the corners of his own shit brown eyes crinkled, and he snorted once they stopped. "Long time no see, Bela."

"Luke. Hoped it would have been longer," she replied, daring to smile up at him.

He laughed, albeit ironically. "We wouldn't have had to meet at all if you'd have only given me the rabbit's foot like I hired you to. But you didn't, so I had to send our little friend after you, and after I didn't hear back from him…" he waved a hand in the air. "Well, here we are."

She bared her teeth at him. "Why are you even after me in the first place? It wasn't like you paid me in advance and I didn't deliver. You still had your money and you could have found another piece to buy from another seller."

"Do you know how much _power_ that rabbit's foot would have given me? I could have been a _god_ against my enemies, but you went and pocketed the damned thing for yourself," he growled, a piece of spittle flying out of his mouth and landing on her cheek. She forced herself not to frown, and instead looked him in the eye as he added, "You're going to tell me where it is, and you're going to give it to me—_without_ any pay."

Bela stared him down, smiling defiantly. She honestly did not care if the man shot her dead on the spot, because then she'd be free of all the crying and heartache and nightmares that she was currently drowning in. So, she stood straighter, put on her best smug smile, and said, "I'd let you have it, but I don't think a pile of ashes is going to give you any luck anytime soon."

His hand tightened around the gun. "_What_?"

She stepped closer to him so that the pistol was barely grazing her nose. "I _burned_ the bloody thing. Now it's no use to anyone or anything but the soil I left it on."

She left everything out about Dean and Sam and her touching the rabbit's foot, which was the actual reason why they burned the damned thing in the first place, and instead tipped her head upwards, holding her stance against Luke. He was practically boiling with rage; so furious that he raised his hand to hit her with the gun but stopped mid-air when the sound of the front door clicking shut filled the both of their ears.

As soft footsteps trailed towards them, Luke spun Bela around and pulled her backside into him, wrapping one arm around her neck while pressing the gun to her temple. She gritted her teeth at the pressure, but didn't utter a word as the new intruder stepped out from behind the wall.

Her jaw dropped as she saw Dean, tears suddenly springing to her eyes and a newfound rush of panic coursing through her body as he immediately reached behind his back in an attempt to pull out his own weapon. However, he was immediately stopped as Luke tightened his grip around Bela's neck and aimed the gun at Dean instead, shaking his head from side to side.

She could practically feel the bastard grin beside her head. "Now, just who the hell are you?"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry it took so long! This was, by far, the hardest chapter to write, because I honestly didn't know where to take it from here. It was actually driving me insane not knowing what to do next, because I really love this fic and I didn't want to just abandon it out of nowhere, especially with school starting up (_tomorrow_ actually, as of August 5th, unfortunately) and everything that is to follow this school-I'M A SENIOR NOW NOT THAT ANY OF YOU GUYS CARE I'M JUST EXCITED I'M ALMOST OUT OF THIS HELL HOLE-year. Anyway, thanks for reading and don't forget to review!


	12. Knowing, Loving & Losing

In stressful times like these, Dean hummed music to himself. Normally it was something by Metallica or Zeppelin, but really, any song was fine. As long as it was something he knew he hummed it, and it always cleared his head and calmed him down. But now, however, while he watched Bela struggle to breathe as a thick arm constricted around her neck and as the barrel of a Glock dug harshly into her temple, Dean forgot every song in the goddamned world.

"I'm Dean Winchester," he said, suddenly remembering that Bela's captor had asked him a question. He clenched his fists at his sides, trying his best not to lunge out and clock the bastard across the jaw, because he knew that that would only end up with Bela receiving a bullet to the brain—and he was not going to let her die here, even if it was the last thing he did.

"Alright, Dean," The guy smiled, nodding. "Let's make it fair. I'm Luke."

"I'd say 'it's nice to meet you,' but I'm trying this new thing where I try my best not to lie," Dean smirked, earning an appreciative chuckle out of the man standing across from him.

"I like you already. Bela, between me, this guy and your cat, you really do keep great company," Luke grinned, breathing down her neck. She attempted to turn her head away from him, but was unable to do so as his arm squeezed tighter around her throat. Instead, she let out a strangled gasp for air, and Dean took an alarmed step forward.

"Nuh-uh, not so fast, buddy," Luke added, waving his gun in a warning motion. "I may like you, but no sudden movements. And do me a favor and kick your weapon over here, huh?"

Dean clenched his jaw but did what he was told nonetheless, watching his pearl-gripped pistol slide across the hardwood floor and stopping at Luke, who swept it to the side with one of his feet. He swallowed to himself—without that gun, he was going to have to handle this the hard way.

"Don't look so glum, man," Luke said as he saw the expression on Dean's face, "No one has to die here, meaning that you're not going to need that little pistol for any type of self-defense. I just want what's owed to me."

Dean looked at him, clenching his jaw as he struggled to keep his patience. "And what exactly is owed to you?" he asked, trying his best to maintain the coolness in his voice.

"Something worthy of replacing what this bitch"—at this, Luke bore his teeth and twisted the gun bitterly into the side of Bela's head, causing Dean to twitch with fury—"promised me months ago, but failed to give. Instead, she burned the damn thing, which, for the life of me, I can't seem to figure out why."

Realizing what he was rambling on about, a smile slowly spread across Dean's face. "You mean the rabbit's foot?"

Luke's eyes flicked to him. "How do you know about that?"

Bela's eyes immediately widened as Dean smirked smugly—if Luke found out that Dean had had any connection to the destroying of the foot, he was as good as dead. And even if he was going to be so within a few months anyway, she did not want him to die like this. She did not want him to die trying to save her, the selfless bastard that he was.

But before she could think of a way to stop him, even if there _was_ a way to stop him, Dean's smirk deepened and he inched ever-so-slightly forward. Fortunately, Luke didn't catch the movement, and instead began to shake with fury as Dean said, "Because I helped her do it. In fact, it was _my_ idea. I'm sure the raccoons pissed all over the ashes."

As Dean grinned amusingly to himself, he took another confident step forward, one that Luke was sure to notice. Sure enough, Luke let out a growl and removed the gun from Bela's head, pointing it directly at the center of Dean's chest.

"Stay back, you son-of-a—" Luke began to grit out through clenched teeth, but before he could finish the sentence Dean connected his knuckles with the inside of his wrist, moving incredibly fast and sending the gun clattering to the ground. However, Dean hesitated between making a dive for the weapon or staying and continuing to fight hand-to-hand, and Luke took this as an opportunity to connect his own fist with Dean's cheekbone, causing him to stumble backwards with a stifled groan.

Still, Dean quickly recovered, ignoring the thick throbbing in his cheek before stepping forward and ducking under another one of Luke's punches. He then wrapped his arms around Luke's waist and rammed forward until the sound of his spine connecting with the corner of a nearby table filled Dean's ears and Luke let out a guttural groan as the pain shot up his back. Dean made a move to punch him in the gut, but Luke smacked his arm away at the last second and pushed him back, trying to provide himself with some time to recuperate just enough to keep fighting.

Dean swerved around a half-hearted swing and clocked his opponent on the side of his jaw before attempting to follow up with a sharp kick to the knee. However, Luke sidestepped this move at the last second, instead landing a solid uppercut to Dean's midsection, causing him to bend at the waist as the momentum caught him. Before he could recover, Luke grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and brought him up to his feet, pushing him back until he had him pinned up to the wall.

A sinister smile crossed over Luke's face as he enclosed his grubby hands around Dean's neck. "Not bad, Winchester," he growled as Dean's vision rapidly clouded with stars and blotches of black, "Almost had me there."

A sharp crack joined the heartbeat echoing in Dean's ears and he thought that his windpipe might have been crushed, but then Luke's hands became slack around his neck and gravity suddenly slid his body down the wall. He sucked in a large gasp of air as his vision slowly returned to normal, and soon he was looking up at Bela, who had a deep scowl etched on her face and his pearl-gripped Colt clasped firmly in her hands. He then realized that she wasn't scowling at him but rather at Luke's now-limp body, a deep red gash oozing blood on the back of his head.

As Dean struggled to regulate his breathing, Bela bent down in front of him, dropping the gun to the floor to cup his face.

"Dean, are you okay?" She asked, concern now sprawled all over her face instead of a scowl. Finding it difficult to talk, Dean instead nodded in affirmation. "Can you stand?"

Again he nodded and Bela helped bring him up to his feet. She then assisted him over to the couch where he braced a hand on the back so she didn't have to hold him anymore, but her hands hovered over him just in case his legs suddenly gave in under his weight. He was feeling insanely light-headed and his vision blurred in-and-out, but his breathing was starting to become more normal and soon he was sucking in steady deep breaths through parted lips, before smiling in amusement as he took in the situation around him.

Bela frowned. "What?"

"It's just kind of ironic," he said slowly, his throat protesting against the friction from his vocal chords. "Only weeks ago _I_ was the one saving you from getting choked to death."

A small smile formed on Bela's mouth, but then she bit her lip and looked away. They weren't supposed to be settling back into conversation this easily—they hadn't spoken in over two weeks. So, instead, she took a half-step away from him and glanced over at Luke's body.

"We're going to have to take care of him," she said, avoiding eye contact with Dean.

He swallowed, noticing her hesitation. "Is he dead?"

"I don't think so," she answered. "Just knocked out, but he's bound to come back after me soon if we just drop him off somewhere."

Dean nodded in agreement. He looked around the apartment for a while, trying to come up with ideas, before his eyes landed on the black Glock that had been tossed to the side in the midst of his and Luke's fight.

The corner of his mouth curled up in a slight smile. "I have an idea."

* * *

After Dean managed to recover most of the strength in his body, he hauled Luke's unconscious form up to his feet, swinging one of his limp arms over his shoulders before instructing Bela to retrieve the Glock and follow him out the door. They snuck downstairs, managing to avoid any curious citizens, and then used a set of keys from Luke's pocket to find his car among the others in the parking garage.

They dragged his body over to a parked, four-door sports car the color of egg yolk, and after Bela opened the rear door, Dean carelessly tossed Luke into the backseat. After this, Dean walked over to the back of the car and popped open the trunk, smiling triumphantly to himself as he and Bela peered at the contents inside.

An array of weapons lay sprawled about, including a few bags of what looked to be cocaine stashed in the corner as well as—to which Bela frowned in disgust—a good portion of porno magazines stacked and shoved to the side. After looking over at the trunk's subjects, the two then climbed into the car, with Dean in the driver's seat and Bela in the passenger's, respectively. Not long after that they were pulling out of the garage and driving off towards an unspecified location.

Neither of them spoke as they drove. The only sounds coming from inside the car were of each other's breathing and the occasional groan Luke emitted from the back. Bela fidgeted with her fingers as she forced herself not to look at Dean, lest she wanted all the emotions from the past two weeks flooding back into her body, and instead she steadied her gaze out the window. Soon they were parking into a deserted lot and getting out of the car, with Dean pulling his cellphone out of his pocket as they headed to a gas station across the street.

He made two phone calls. The first one was to a taxi company, where he requested a cab to their location. The second one was to the local police department, where he left an anonymous tip about a suspicious car parked in an empty lot, telling them that he may or may not have seen a body slumped over in the backseat. A few minutes later, just as the cops were sliding into the lot and getting out of their cars to inspect Luke's own vehicle, Bela and Dean were driving away from the scene in the backseat of a yellow cab, watching with satisfied expressions on their faces.

When they got back to the apartment, Bela began cleaning up the mess that Dean and Luke had made in their fight, straightening her furniture before taking a washcloth to the small stain of blood that had formed after she had clocked Luke in the back of the head with the Colt. Dean also bent down to pick up the gun, wiping away the blood with a napkin before tucking it back behind the waistband of his jeans. After this, the two of them stood awkwardly across from one another, avoiding eye contact and unsure of what to say to each other.

However, the silence soon got to Bela, and before she realized it she was frowning and struggling to hold back a new stream of tears. Her shaky voice cutting through the silence forced Dean to look at her, and when he did, her lip was trembling.

"Why did you _come _here?" she suddenly asked, hands shaking. "Why did you come back?"

Dean couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes. "Well, I came here to drop off the stuff you left in my car back in North Dakota…." His voice, which was low and hesitant, trailed off. "But truthfully, I was just looking for a reason to come see you."

Bela stared at him, her hands shaking furiously at her sides. By now, the tears were falling again and she didn't know whether to feel happy that he cared so much about her or angry for that very same reason, because it certainly did not push her in the direction of getting over him, rather than spiraling further down into the hole she had dug herself into over the past two weeks. As she hesitated to respond, choking on her tears and struggling to form words with the anger coursing through her body, Dean instinctively stepped forward and moved to wrap his arms around her.

Bela frowned, trying to step back. "No, get off of me—" she said through clenched teeth and as she twisted in his grip, beating her fists on his chest and arms as he held her tightly against him, his face buried in her shoulder. She soon gave up on fighting back; however, as she let out a choked sob and her hot tears began to fall harder until she could no longer see anything but blurred colors and objects before her.

"I'm sorry, Bela," Dean was saying into her shirt, "I'm so, so sorry."

He kept repeating the words to her as her body convulsed against him, and soon she wasn't making any more noises. The tears just silently fell as she stared blankly ahead, completely numb and senseless to what was going on around her as a million thoughts reeled through her mind. None of this was fair. She wasn't supposed to fall in love with a soon-to-be dead man. In fact, he wasn't even supposed to die. They should have been two normal people that were totally oblivious to demons and deals and supernatural items and creatures, because if that was the case, then maybe they would have been able to live a happy life together, without all this damage and heartbreak. But then she shelved this thought aside, because she knew that if that was the case, then there would probably be no way in hell that the two of them would ever meet, and also because she didn't know what thought hurt more—living a life never knowing Dean Winchester ever existed, or living a life knowing, loving and subsequently, losing him.


	13. Together

In the midst of all the crying and apologizing, Dean and Bela found each other again.

They kissed, and it was like they were two lost lovers who hadn't kissed in ages, especially as the two of them found that air wasn't a necessity as long as they had to part lips. Bela did, however, gasp as Dean pressed her body into the wall using his, while simultaneously biting down on her lip, sending a shiver down her spine and making her hands tremble as she groped through the bristly brown hair on the back of his head. They slowly tossed whatever clothing they were wearing to the side until they were both down to their underwear, continuing to kiss as they leisurely made their way around the apartment and to the master bedroom.

And soon, as they took in each other's heat in the bed, Bela forgot what she had to cry about, and Dean forgot what he had to apologize for. All they could process was the stickiness of each other's skin, the softness of each other's lips, and the seductiveness of each other's moans as they moved as one, tangled in a bundle of silk sheets and enjoying the feel of one another's body.

When they both reached their respective climactic ends, they lay beside one another, Dean on his back and Bela curled up into his side, just like how they were that one fateful night in the motel room. Bela felt as if almost all the emotions that had plagued her over the past couple of weeks had washed away. She no longer felt like crying, no longer felt angry at Dean for doing what he did to save his only brother; all she really felt was bittersweet. She was sad that he was going to be gone, yes, but she had also garnered a degree of closure spending this one night (which, she knew, was probably going to be one of their last together) with him. The feeling was all nostalgic, but it was one she thought she could come to handle.

"What're you thinking about?" Dean asked, pulling her closer into him once he saw the thoughtful expression on her face.

Bela blinked, shelving her thoughts aside. "That waitress back at the diner," she smiled weakly, mimicking what he had said to her all those nights ago. Dean had already rolled his eyes and began to grin. "You were right about her…_rack_, by the way." She grimaced at the choice of words, but still managed to wear a smirk nonetheless.

"Alright, alright," he laughed. "Touché."

She giggled for a moment, then sighed and gazed up at him. "I was just thinking about you."

"Aw, I'm flattered," he bore a small grin, turning his head to look back down at her. Then, noticing that her smile seemed somewhat conflicted as she began to think again, he frowned and brushed a few fingers against her face. "We're going to be okay, Bela."

If he would have said this to her earlier, she probably would have started crying again. This time, however, she simply smiled, a mixture of sadness and hopefulness, before trailing a finger through the stubble on his jawline.

"You think so?"

"Well," he shrugged, smiling, "We always find a way, right?"

As she relaxed, Bela smiled, too. They were just words, but they were words with a hell of a lot of intimate meaning, and for some reason they made any worries she had dissipate. With this, she snuggled back into Dean's side and refused to think about anything except for the fact that at that moment, she was as content as ever.

They spent the next few days as if they were just a normal couple, doing normal couple things. Dean cooked Bela breakfast, which included a vast array of eggs, bacon, French toast, and a whole bunch of other items that she would have never guessed him capable of making before, and they went on a movie date and had dinner at a five-star restaurant that required them to dress up in formal wear. Even though Dean initially complained about how uncomfortable his suit was, he immediately shut up when he saw Bela emerge out of the bedroom in a sleek jade dress, and was even uncharacteristically out of a smart-assed comment when she walked over to him and gave him an amused look-over. All in all, it was a wonderful weekend they spent together, and by the end of it, Dean could safely say that it was the best of his life.

Unfortunately, he soon had to leave for an urgent zombie-involved case once Sam called him from somewhere near Erie, Pennsylvania, asking for his help. Bela didn't cry; in fact, she didn't even _feel_ like crying, and instead she smiled and made him promise to be careful as he gathered his things and left her with a final kiss. She watched him drive off in the Impala from her living room window, scratching Peru on the head as the old car's taillights disappeared down the street corner.

A few weeks later, Bela received a call of her own, although it wasn't from Dean. It was from Sam, and he was somewhere in Indiana, and he could barely get his voice high enough for her to understand a single word of what he was saying. However, she didn't need to hear his words, because she instantly knew.

Dean was gone.

And then, Bela did cry.

* * *

Over the next four months Bela proceeded to continue on with her life, although not a day went by when she didn't think about Dean. She stopped thieving, thinking how much the aspect bothered him, although she still sold her own stuff from time to time once she got bored or felt like her bank account was stooping too low for her liking. However, she never once thought about selling the membrane-encased rune drum, which she kept hidden away in her closet safe. It was not only a Siberian artifact, but also an artifact from her relationship with Dean, and she wasn't sure if she'd ever truly be able to part from it, no matter how much money it would guarantee her.

She also never heard from Sam again, although she didn't blame him for going under the radar after his brother's death. However, Bobby did call her from time-to-time to check up on how she was doing, much to her surprise. Their conversations were a little awkward and never extended for more than four or five minutes, but Bela appreciated the thought nevertheless. In fact, the calls were sort of comforting, because it made her feel like there was still someone out there who, at least _somewhat_, cared about how she was handling things.

One day, while reading a book in her living room, she thought Bobby might have even made the effort to physically stop by her apartment and chat for a while, as she heard a knocking on the front door. Peru immediately hopped down from his spot behind her and continuously meowed at whoever was standing outside, causing Bela to curiously frown at him as she opened the door and glanced up at her visitor.

Her face immediately fell and her voice was small and tinny as she shakily gasped, "Dean?"

He didn't look how a man who had been dead for four months should have looked. In fact, he seemed entirely healthy, exactly how he did the last time she had seen him with her own two eyes, and this was precisely the reason why she immediately darted for her gun in the end table drawer.

"I—stay back," she said, hands trembling as she pointed the Walther at who or whatever was standing before her, because it surely couldn't have been Dean Winchester.

"Bela—" Dean—it?—began, ignoring what she had just said and taking a half-step forward.

Peru had since stopped meowing and was now rubbing his head against Dean's legs, purring loudly. Bela frowned down at her pet, biting back tears, and instead forced herself to look at Dean again. "I said, _stay_ _back_."

Sighing, Dean took another step forward towards her until the gun was pressed firmly against him. His eyes were boring down on her and she couldn't bring herself to look him in the face, so instead she kept her eyes trained on the cloth of the T-shirt—a T-shirt that she had seen the _actual_ Dean wear so many times—over his steadily rising chest.

"What do you think you're doing?" she said quietly, tears slowly starting to fall down as she tried her best to remain angry. "I have a gun pointed—"

The words died in her throat as Dean lifted a single hand and gently pushed her wrist away. She could have easily fought back; easily could have shot him, but they both knew the real reason why she didn't take the chance when she had it—she knew that this really was him standing before her.

As such, she didn't protest as he silently wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him, feeling him take in a deep breath against her neck as he held her there. Instead she noiselessly cried, her arms limp at her sides and her gun clattering to the floor as she found that she no longer had the strength to hold it in her hand. Her suspicions about it really being him, even if she had any anymore, were completely laid to rest as she breathed in a combination of leather, black coffee, and Irish Spring, making her quietly gasp out,

"How are you…?"

Dean didn't pull back to look at her. Instead, he brought his lips right beside her ear and whispered, "I found a way."

The answer was entirely vague and didn't even begin to answer all the questions she had whirling through her mind, but at that moment, it was all Bela Talbot needed to hear.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Alright guys, we have come to the end. I just want to say that I really appreciate each and every one of you that stuck with this fic from beginning to end, and I also want to say how thankful I am for the nice reviews that you all left for me. This was my first time writing a fic this long and, not only that, but with an original concept (original _enough_, because, of course, the characters and some aspects are definitely not mine), and I am happy at all the positive feedback I have gotten from it. This is certainly not the last I'll be writing Dean and Bela, in fact I think i'm even going to continue on with this story line in other fics, and maybe even make a collection of Dean/Bela fics stemming from their story in this one. Who knows?

I also want to apologize for the shortness of this chapter, but like I said I have plans for further fics surrounding this one, so I didn't want to make it seem like this was the flat-out end. For the meantime, however, you can use your imagination to figure out what may happen next with these two little lovebirds, because you won't be seeing the last of them from me anytime soon!


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